


Devotion to the Crown

by Khentkawes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Prompt Fill, Spy Aramis, some hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khentkawes/pseuds/Khentkawes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis commands Aramis to serve as a spy within the Spanish army. After Rochefort’s accusations, any refusal could cast doubt on his loyalty, so to please the king and protect the queen, Aramis agrees.<br/>Several years pass, and the war rages on. Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan believe Aramis to be safely hidden away in his monastery…until they capture a handful of Spanish prisoners and come face to face with Aramis, who must decide whether to maintain his cover or admit to the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for his prompt: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3615726#cmt3615726
> 
> I shouldn't be doing this for so many reasons, mostly because I should be finishing other stories and I'm going to be out of town most of this month. But I've spent a week on this story already, so I'm posting at least the beginning. If I'm lucky, the rest will be done before I leave town, but if not...updates will resume at the beginning of September.

Aramis didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He could still feel the force of Porthos’s embrace, see the sadness in d’Artagnan’s eyes, hear the warmth of Athos’s voice as he bid him farewell. Their one last moment, hands stacked together as they uttered the oath that sealed their brotherhood, still echoed in his mind. And it would have to suffice for now.

Because if he looked back, if he paused for even a second, he’d change his mind.

So Aramis walked away, his stride determined. One hand moved to the old wooden rosary that now hung around his neck – a more suitable replacement for the queen’s gift that had almost brought destruction upon everyone he cared about. As his fingers traced the wooden beads, he tried to keep his mind away from the parcel he carried tucked away inside his doublet, but the slim package weighed heavily on his mind. The parcel’s seal was already broken. He’d read the contents over and over until there was no doubt what it contained – new orders. His orders.

Aramis knew he couldn’t turn back now – because this about more than just vows and duty. It was about penance.

He’d vowed to forsake all worldly things, to do whatever it took to atone before God. But he hadn’t expected it to be quite this hard. He had expected to retire to a monastery, to live out his life in quiet devotion. But instead he’d found himself summoned to the palace early this morning for a private audience with the king. And that was when he learned the true cost of his vows to both God and country.

He’d given up everything: his possessions, his position in society, his commission, every connection to his son and to the queen, the companionship of his brothers, even their trust in him… all of it was gone. But it wasn’t enough. On top of all of that, his humble plans for the future had also been ripped away. He’d silently hoped that a career in the church would offer him a chance to begin anew, to find peace and a new life. But now he knew that God required a greater sacrifice and he had finally been forced to surrender even this humble hope, and with it his desire for the quiet penitence of a monastery and the peace he’d hoped to find there.

Because when he’d arrived at the palace that morning, he was faced with Minister Tréville and the stony face of the King of France as he hadn’t appeared in a long time. This was a man who knew what he wanted and knew he would be obeyed. It was the king reclaiming his authority after he’d foolishly sat back for so long, allowing Rochefort to come in and take it all away. Today there was no sign of the weak, frightened child. The king stood in his place.

“I tire of words, monsieur,” the king had said. “And if you are as loyal as you say, you will obey my commands without question or hesitation.”

Aramis hadn’t dared to look at Tréville, though he felt more uncertain than he had at his own trial. Still, some response seemed to be required.

“I am, as always, your majesty’s servant, and as such, am solely devoted to France and to the will of God.”

“And as I rule France at God’s decree,” Louis said, with only a hint of irony, “your devotion will compel you to take these orders and uphold them with your life.” Refusal was impossible. Aramis took the sealed parcel in silent submission. “I am sorry for Rochefort’s accusations against you, Aramis.” The king’s voice softened only minutely. “But we will not stand for any hint of disloyalty. If you fulfill these orders, you will have regained our faith in your devotion.”

He was dismissed with a curt wave, but the implication was clear. The orders were even clearer, with no room for misunderstanding.

So now, leaving his brothers behind him, he did as commanded and left Paris without delay. By twilight, he had reached the designated meeting place, a safe house several hours’ ride from Paris. There Tréville greeted him with a grim smile.

“Did they believe you?” he asked.

Aramis nodded. “I told them I would retire at the monastery in Douai.”

“You gave them no reason to suspect the truth?” Aramis shook his head, but Tréville pressed him. “I know you Aramis, and they know you even better. You’re telling me that you said nothing that could serve as a hint, did nothing to raise their suspicions?”

“I swore I wouldn’t.” Aramis felt the heat in his voice. “I know what’s at stake and I’ve given up everything. And still you question me?”

Tréville simply stared, assessing him coolly. Finally with a nod, he gestured for Aramis to join him. “Then come. We have much to discuss. You leave for the Spanish border in two days. Let’s make sure you’re prepared for every eventuality before then.”

And that was how Aramis came to be a spy for the French crown. Every morning and every night thereafter he prayed for absolution, asking God to accept this as his penance. Because no other act of repentance would satisfy the King of France. He’d given up everything to regain the king’s trust, to ensure Louis never suspected that Aramis had ever been anything but completely loyal to the crown. He would prove himself a loyal servant, and in doing so, dispel the last clouds of suspicion that Rochefort had cast on him…and by extension, any lingering doubts about Queen Anne’s faithfulness. If King Louis required a tangible act of devotion to prove Aramis’s loyalty, then proof is what he would have.

It wasn’t the way he’d planned it, but it fulfilled his oath of duty to both God and King. Just as he’d vowed in that prison cell, he had renounced every pleasure he’d once had in life – even the quiet pleasures of a simple religious life.

He was empty now of all but duty.

 

* * *

 

_Nearly three years later, near the front lines…_

Aramis took a deep breath, pressing his back to the trunk of the tree as he sat, waiting. He calmly loaded his musket, taking extra care as he hefted the weapon into position and checked his supply of powder.

These Spanish muskets weren’t up to the quality he’d been used to in the musketeers, but he’d had ample time to adapt. Sometimes it seemed that he had done nothing but adapt – to the culture, to the rules, to the strange camaraderie among men he was silently betraying. Adapting to new weapons was minor in comparison.

But he always took extra care to clean and repair his weapon, waited an extra breath to confirm his shot. The others called him obsessive, but it wasn’t that. He just kept remembering that first shot he’d missed, during his early days in the Spanish army. It had caught him by surprise – not least of all because the shot he’d intended to wound the man’s shoulder had instead hit him in the neck, dead center. The spray of blood was unforgettable enough. The fact it was a musketeer only left the image imprinted on Aramis’s mind, etched so deeply he could never remove it.

Aramis has almost lost his nerve then, run back to Paris to tell Tréville he was done.

But he couldn’t. And they’d discussed this before Tréville had sent him off. He had understood (at least in principle) the unpleasantness that went along with his role. Aramis had to fight for the Spanish. It was the only way to gain their trust. So he did. But if he missed a bit more frequently than he used to, his new superior officers never knew the difference. They knew him to be a decent shot. Not exceptional, perhaps, but far better than majority of their soldiers who’d seen little in the way of real battle. Even with the occasional miss, Aramis was still enough of an asset to earn his keep.

“The lieutenant says the French scouts are approaching just over that ridge,” his companion said. Aramis turned his head slightly to see the young Spanish soldier at his side.

“How many?” he asked.

Matías hunched down beside Aramis, disguised by the brush as they stayed out of sight. “Maybe half a dozen. It’s a small party. The lieutenant seems confident we can handle them quickly.”

Lieutenant Cordero was always confident, but Aramis knew that it was partially a front, a necessary persona to inspire confidence in his men, even in the direst situations. But then, given his mission, the lieutenant had no other option. They were on French soil, and Cordero commanded only a small number of men, but that allowed them to keep their camp hidden, and it was the perfect base for raids and scouting operations. Their position was invaluable, but they were on dangerous ground. Especially if the French scouts found their camp.

“He wants you to take out the leader, if you can,” Matías said softly, “as soon as he comes in sight. After you fire the first shot, the others will come from the south side to cut off the Frenchmen’s escape.”

Aramis nodded, breathing deeply as he steadied himself. Then he looked back to Matías.

“All right,” he said. “Follow closely.”

Matías did, holding his own musket carefully as he copied Aramis’s movements. They crept up the hillside and through the brush to a small rise where they could look down on the clearing below. They’d have a clear view of the path the French scouts were traveling, as well as the stand of trees to the south where their Spanish comrades were waiting to ambush the enemy.

Lying on his stomach to stay out of sight, Aramis pulled his musket into position and surveyed the clearing.

Three soldiers stood just past the tree line, looking about cautiously. And they were musketeers. Aramis closed his eyes briefly, suppressing a curse. He preferred regular infantry if he was honest. They were less skilled. Most of them just green recruits, nameless young faces who threw themselves into battle as if they were asking to be killed. It was the nature of war, of course, and Aramis was accustomed to it after all this time.

But the misgivings always in the back of his mind were easier to ignore when faced with anonymous infantrymen, rather than the all-too familiar uniform of a musketeer.

“Get ready,” Aramis whispered to Matías. He watched the trees on the far side of the clearing, hearing the approach of the remaining Frenchmen. “Don’t fire until I do.” Matías nodded. Aramis pretended not to see his hands tremble slightly. Like always, Aramis was struck by how young his Spanish friend truly was.

The remaining three French scouts approached their comrades in the clearing, still slightly obscured by the trees. Aramis sighted down the barrel of his musket, seeking out the leader. His gaze immediately went to the tallest member of the group. Even at a distance, his bearing and the style of his armor marked him as the most likely target, probably the leader.

Aramis took a breath, steadying his heartrate, and prepared to take the shot. He lined up the musket, took another breath, and eased his finger onto the trigger just as the tall musketeer fully emerged from the trees and turned to face the spot where Aramis was hidden. A breath caught in his throat in a half gasp and only years of battle-field experience prevented Aramis from visibly startling. As it was, his breath hitched, his grip faltered slightly, and Aramis fired. Matías took that as his signal, firing also. But while he hit one man in the leg, Aramis’s shot veered off course, hitting the ground in a spray of dirt near the leader’s feet. The musketeer jerked back, shouting orders as he scanned the tree line.

Aramis froze, watching him intently, drinking in the sight of Porthos for the first time in nearly three years. If Aramis hadn’t been able to hear his shout, he might not have believed it. But no, even encased in battle armor and shouting orders, the lead musketeer was clearly Porthos, emerging from the spray of dirt sent up as Aramis’s errant musket ball had struck the earth.

“Morbleau!” Aramis swore, grabbing Matías as he scurried backwards, praying their position hadn’t been spotted.

Cordero and the rest of his men had heard their shots and charged into the battle, pistol shots ringing out amongst the yelling.

Aramis discarded his musket, sliding down the edge of the embankment until he was level with the clearing, then drawing a pistol as he turned to enter the battle. But then he heard Matías shout and spun, getting off one shot to take out the nearest attacker. The second, however, was already on them, sword in hand as he lunged at Matías. Aramis shoved him sideways, barely drawing his own sword in time to deflect a thrust. Still, he staggered, struggling to regain his footing as he saw more musketeers advancing from the trees.

A quick glance showed the fighting behind him, in the clearing, had escalated. Swords now joined the fray. But as Aramis parried, Matías firing his pistol and reaching for his own sword, he realized that these men had been lying in wait.

Against six men, even six musketeers, their ambush should have succeeded. But now, with more musketeers flooding into the battle from multiple directions, the odds were stacked against them.

It seems the French had planned an ambush of their own.

Aramis fought wildly with sword and main gauche both drawn as two musketeers pushed him back towards the center of the fighting. Working to keep his footing on the uneven terrain, Aramis feinted right before landing a strike to the left that connected solidly with his opponent’s shoulder. He heard Matías cry out, and Aramis felt a sharp slash at his side as he turned towards yet another attacker. The sting was enough to make him gasp, but Aramis didn’t lose a moment before he countered, parrying again and slashing at his attacker’s leg.

It earned him a slight reprieve and Aramis spared a glance for where Matías lay before he turned and retreated several paces, allowing him to rejoin the others. As if out of nowhere, Cordero emerged from the trees, a pistol in each hand, raising both to fire into the midst of the fighting.

He caught Aramis’s eye briefly and gave a curt nod, delivering a silent command to cover him, before he plunged forward into the center of the chaos.

Aramis sheathed his main gauche and switched his sword to his left hand, drawing his second pistol with the right. Last shot, he thought to himself. He raised it towards the mess of soldiers, French and Spanish, and saw the swordsman advancing on Cordero’s position. D’Artagnan…dusty, battle-worn, a bit older perhaps, but recognizably d’Artagnan. Aramis took a deep breath, raised the pistol and fired.

He thought he heard d’Artagnan cry out when the ball hit its mark, but at the same moment he heard something behind him. He dodged a few seconds too late as a sword hilt connected with the side of his head. It was a glancing blow, not enough to knock him out, but enough to leave him reeling. He staggered, fell to one knee as his vision swam and he fought to regain focus. He raised his sword left-handed to block a descending strike, the force of the blow jolting up his arm. The next blow took advantage of his poor balance and sent him all the way to the ground, landing on his side. A boot kicked his hand, sending his sword flying out of reach.

He lay, gasping, eyes watering at the sting of dust and the stab of pain in his skull. The ringing in his ears merged with the shouts of soldiers, but the clang of swords had begun to die away. As he blinked furiously, clearing his vision, he waited for the final blow to fall.

It didn’t.

When he could focus enough, he saw a musketeer standing over him, sword held in front of him, ready to strike if Aramis so much as moved. Another musketeer came to his side, dragging a defeated Spaniard who was shoved to the ground beside Aramis.

“You’ll both stay down if you know what’s good for you.”

Aramis was happy to comply. It gave him the chance to look up and survey the fighting – what was left of it anyway.

The last few Spaniards were surrendering their weapons, overpowered by greater numbers. The initial scouting party of six musketeers had more than tripled when their reinforcements emerged from the hillside, and even with the few scattered bodies (a mixture of both French and Spanish, Aramis noted), Aramis and his comrades were outnumbered nearly two to one. The sheer numbers combined with the surprise attack meant they hadn’t stood a chance.

Aramis breathed raggedly as he pushed his knees beneath him. The motion caused a sharp pain in his side, pulling at a wound that was growing damp with blood.

The musketeer pushed his sword close to Aramis’s throat.

“Did you not hear me? I said stay down.”

Aramis nodded, but said nothing. His head bowed, he breathed shallowly to calm his racing heartbeat, hoping he could ease the pounding in his head. He closed his eyes in defeat, and waited. He couldn’t have said how long he sat there, counting his own breaths. It was long enough that he jolted back to full awareness when he felt his arms jerked behind him and felt his hands roughly tied. He choose to focus on the bite of the rope as it dug into his wrists.

That at least was easier to handle than whatever might happen next.


	2. Chapter 2

They were each bound with rope and gathered together, herded like cattle and marched to the musketeers’ camp. Aramis kept his head down, looking at no one, remaining huddled in the crowd of his fellow captives. He spared only enough time to make a quick count of the men they’d lost. Eight captives, himself included. That meant five dead. He dared not look at the bodies, dared not try to distinguish the Spanish corpses from the French.

Shoulders hunched, he allowed himself to be shoved and prodded along, dragged back to the camp where they would no doubt be detained for questioning. In light of the surprise attack, it was clear that the French hadn’t been aiming for maximum destruction; they’d been looking for captives, for war prisoners and the potential information they could provide. Ironic, really. Their mission here was to gather information about French troop movements, raiding and sabotaging along the way. Instead, they would be providing information to the French. Or the others would, at any rate. Aramis hadn’t yet managed to sort out his role in this little tableau, let alone begin formulating his own plans.

The pounding headache he’d been given interfered with rational thought, so he merely did his best to remain unseen and inconspicuous while flashes of various scenarios flew through his mind: visions of escape and a return to Spanish territory, images of betraying Cordero and confessing to the musketeers (or betraying the musketeers and confessing to Cordero), being shot for desertion by the Spanish, imprisoned as a war criminal by the French….

It all made little sense at the moment.

 _One step at a time, Aramis_ , he told himself, taking his own advice literally as he kept his eyes on the ground, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other to keep himself moving.

His focus was so complete that he almost jumped when Cordero made his way to his side, brushing subtly against his shoulder to get his attention.

“What happened back there?” Cordero asked, a whisper of anger barely detectable as he kept his voice low.

Aramis kept his eyes on the ground in front of him. “What do you mean?”

“You were supposed to take out their leader,” Cordero whispered furiously. “How did you let this happen?”

That did get Aramis’s attention, forcing him to cast a quick glance at Cordero. He saw the tight line of Cordero’s jaw, but in his mind all he saw was Porthos, standing in his line of sight as he jerked the musket aside at the last moment.

“I don’t know. My grip must have slipped when the musket went off.”

“Slipped,” Cordero scoffed. “Or perhaps you’re a liability after all.”

Aramis clenched his jaw, refusing to look at the lieutenant. “Hey, if I hadn’t had your back, you’d have been killed the moment you charged those musketeers. So which one of us is a liability?”

Cordero huffed. He might have replied, but before he could, Aramis felt a rough blow to his shoulder, making him stumble. He looked up to a see a nameless musketeer glaring at him.

“Keep moving and be quiet,” he ordered.

Aramis nodded and did as he was told.

 

* * *

 

“You’re damn lucky the ball didn’t get lodged in there,” Porthos muttered.

D’Artagnan merely grunted in acknowledgement as Belvoir finished the last stitch and tied off the thread. He wiped away the last traces of blood before Porthos patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate. I can finish up here.” He waved Belvoir on, leaving him free to help the others as Porthos grabbed a bandage and began binding d’Artagnan’s arm.

“It’s not that bad,” d’Artagnan insisted.

Porthos frowned. “It took a chunk out of your arm. I’d say that’s bad enough.”

He began winding the bandage tightly around d’Artagnan’s upper arm to cover the wound, working silently.

“Are we going to begin questioning the prisoners?” d’Artagnan asked.

Porthos nodded. “Yeah. Marcoux already started. Athos took their lieutenant to question him separately, but Marcoux was going to see what he could learn from the others. They’re under guard on the other side of the camp.”

“How many did we lose?”

Porthos secured the end of the bandage with a quick tug. “Three, but I’m not sure about a couple of the wounded. Could be one more before the night’s out. Several of their men didn’t make it either. We captured eight in all.”

“That’s better than we’d expected. Do you think that’s all of them?”

Porthos shrugged. “Well, our information said it was a small detachment. So probably. Hopefully Marcoux can find out.” He reached out to squeeze d’Artagnan’s shoulder as he stood. “You good?” D’Artagnan nodded. “Good. I’m gonna go see how Athos is coming along. You…stay here and take it easy.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, says the man who got shot.”

“In the arm. It’s fine.”

Porthos grunted. “Just take it easy, all right?”

He didn’t wait for a response and d’Artagnan watched him go, striding purposefully toward the tent where Athos had taken the Spanish leader.

To his credit, d’Artagnan did try to stay put and rest. But as he’d said, the wound wasn’t bad, and his curiosity got the better of him. Standing to stretch his legs, d’Artagnan wandered through the camp, checking in with several musketeers, taking a moment to observe while Belvoir and the others were tending to the wounded. They seemed to have everything well in hand, so with no plan in mind, d’Artagnan found his feet taking him to the other side of the camp. He stopped fifteen feet from where the prisoners were held.

They were tied and bound, sitting in a loose group as Marcoux questioned one of them, several other musketeers standing guard.

D’Artagnan scanned the group of prisoners, assessing them. Most were silent and huddled on the ground, neither speaking nor looking at one another, appearing dirty and battered. Most sported bruises and cuts, some of which were surely from Marcoux’s questioning. He appeared to have worked his way through most of the prisoners, interrogating the last few while d’Artagnan watched.

As d’Artagnan looked on, his eyes caught on one figure, a dark-haired man kneeling beside an injured comrade. He watched the man fumble with a poorly secured bandage looped around his friend’s shoulder. Like the others, his hands were bound in front of him, making his actions clumsy and awkward.

He was about to look away when suddenly the Spaniard turned to look behind him, as if sensing d’Artagnan’s presence. For a moment, d’Artagnan was startled. The man looked so much like Aramis that d’Artagnan’s heart almost stopped. He took a deep breath and looked away, trying to get a grip on the overwhelming sense of nostalgia.

When they’d first left Paris and war had begun in earnest, Aramis’s absence had left a palatable hole in their midst. They would be riding along and Porthos would turn to throw a joke in Aramis’s direction, only to realize he wasn’t there. Or d’Artagnan would see an injured comrade and begin to call for Aramis before the words died in his mouth, realizing a fraction too late that Aramis wasn’t there. It had seemed as though Aramis’s ghost was everywhere, haunting them with his absence as they went off to war.

So this wasn’t the first time d’Artagnan had seen a dark-haired man and momentarily mistaken him for their old friend.

But when d’Artagnan looked back, the resemblance was still there, even stronger than before. And the Spanish soldier was still looking at him. D’Artagnan saw his gaze move to the bandage around d’Artagnan’s arm and linger there before briefly meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes and then quickly looking away.

D’Artagnan found his feet drawing him towards the prisoners without any conscious thought. When he was only a few paces away, he stopped, shocked. This was no trick of memory, no mere nostalgia.

“Aramis?”

The Spanish soldier didn’t look at him, but he spoke roughly, in French.

“You mistake me, monsieur.”

“No, I don’t think I do,” d’Artagnan said, taking two more steps forward. “Aramis, what happened? Why are you…” he gestured vaguely towards Aramis and the other prisoners.

Aramis did look up, but only met d’Artagnan’s eyes for a moment. “I repeat, you are mistaken. Whatever you may be thinking, you’re wrong.” His sharp voice emphasized the last word, pausing before his voice took on a harsher tone. “I am not your friend.”

D’Artagnan felt his heart clench, but pressed on. “Aramis, I don’t…”

“How’s the arm?” Aramis asked abruptly.

“It…it’s fine.”

“Too bad,” Aramis spat out the words. D’Artagnan flinched. There was a cruel glint in Aramis’s eyes that was utterly foreign to him. “Despite what you think, you don’t know me.” Aramis looked away with a disgusted scoff. “Perhaps you never did.”

D’Artagnan stood in shook, staring for a long moment, before he spun around and stalked away.

This was insane. It made no sense. He had to find Porthos. Find Athos. They would figure this out, set things right.

 

* * *

 

 Aramis let out a shuddering breath as he turned back to Matías, fumbling again with the crude bandage he’d fashioned before Matías batted his hand away.

“What did he want?”

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.” Matías didn’t speak French, but he’d apparently picked up on something in the tone of their conversation. Aramis didn’t respond, looking away and hearing Matías sigh. “Renato,” Matías said, “just please be careful. There’s no need to antagonize them.”

Aramis nodded dully, and reached to check Matías’s bandage again, but his companion ducked aside. “And stop fussing. It’s fine. I think the bleeding’s stopped. There’s nothing more you can do for me.”

Sinking back on his heels, Aramis forced a long breath out through clenched teeth. _Nothing more you can do for me_. Or for anyone, it seemed. And Aramis had a feeling matters were going to become worse before this was over.

He had no desire to lie to d’Artagnan, but he was under orders not to reveal his real mission to anyone. Ever. And here, surrounded by enemies – friends disguised as enemies, enemies who felt like friends – one wrong word could blow his cover, get him hanged by the Spanish as a spy, or by the French as a traitor, or by King Louis simply because Aramis failed to follow his orders to the letter.

Aramis closed his eyes tightly and found his stiff fingers reaching for his old rosary, a prayer for wisdom already jumping to his lips. He could certainly use some guidance about now.

 

* * *

 

“D’Artagnan are you sure you weren’t mistaken? You didn’t take a blow to the head you’re not mentioning, did ya?”

He glared back. “No. And I’m telling you, Aramis is part of that Spanish troop.”

“Aramis is safe back in some stuffy monastery. It must just be someone who looks like him.”

“You go over there and then tell me that.” D’Artagnan pointed towards the guards still gathered about the prisoners.

Porthos sighed. “Fine.”

He marched over to the prisoners, and d’Artagnan knew he was only doing this to humor him. But it didn’t matter because once he drew nearer, his whole demeanor changed. Porthos glanced back to d’Artagnan who merely raised an eyebrow – a clearly communicated “I told you so.” Porthos hesitated a moment before he closed the last remaining distance and roughly seized Aramis by the shoulder, pulling the man towards him as if to get a better look at him.

Aramis was on his knees, shoulders tense and back held uncomfortably straight. But he didn’t so much as flinch when Porthos grabbed him. D’Artagnan watched in stunned silence as his two friends stared at one another.

And then the moment was broken as Aramis jerked back, pulling away as he wrenched out of Porthos’s grasp. It was enough to snap Porthos out of his speechless stare.

“You can’t be here,” Porthos said, voice tight, although whether it was from anger or the sheer relief of seeing his friend again, d’Artagnan couldn’t tell. “You’re supposed to be in a monastery.” Aramis merely glared back at him, dark eyes unreadable. Porthos sighed as he let his arms drop to his sides. “Okay, then if you haven’t been at the monastery this whole time, you better start explaining. What are you doing here?”

“I should think that would be self-evident,” Aramis replied.

Porthos looked past Aramis to the other prisoners, several of whom were watching the exchange. “You’re with them?”

“Yes, obviously. What an astute observation.” The patronizing tone of Aramis’s voice felt like a slap. It was the tone Aramis used when he unleashed his wit on someone he considered to be a complete dolt. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan had heard that tone before, but never directed at themselves.

“You can’t be fightin’ for the Spanish.” Porthos’s voice dropped, taking on a rough edge.

“Why not? It’s better than fighting on behalf of a petulant child who rules France like a tyrant.”

Porthos tilted his head, considering. “Are they forcing you? Were you captured and conscripted somehow?”

Aramis choked on a surprised laugh. “No. You should know that no one can force me to do something I don’t want to do. I joined up willingly of my own free will.” Aramis glanced between both Porthos and d’Artagnan. “Don’t look so surprised. After everything that’s happened, how could I pass up the opportunity to help show the _illustrious_ king of France what a dithering fool he really is?”

“So to spite the king, you left the monastery and joined the Spanish army…just like that?”

“Yes, with pleasure.”

“You were willing to throw everything away…your loyalty, your honor, our friendship…for the sake of the Spanish?”

Aramis scoffed. “Blind loyalty to a corrupt country is worth nothing to me. And there’s no honor,” Aramis spat the word like it was bitter on his tongue, “in France anymore. Not after the way it’s been tarnished by the likes of Richelieu and Rochefort…by Louis himself.” Aramis’s eyes flicked away for a moment, staring past Porthos before his gaze snapped back, eyes glinting sharply. “You may be content to prostitute yourself to the filth of French nobility, but I won’t.”

Porthos stiffened, shifting back slightly as though recoiling from a snake that could strike at any moment. For his part, d’Artagnan blanched, struck by the venom in Aramis’s words, his blood beginning to boil at the insult to everything d’Artagnan and the others had defended with their own sweat and blood. But Porthos kept on staring, assessing, as Aramis met his eye with a stony glare.

“You should watch your mouth before your slander lands you in more trouble than you’re already in.”

“Slander? Hardly. It’s the truth, as any halfwit would tell you. Only a fool would throw aside their dignity to serve as a slavering lapdog of the decadent French court. You’re not a soldier, you’re nothing but a pawn who’s too insensible to realize he’s being kept on a leash.”

Porthos stepped forward angrily, crowding Aramis’s personal space. “Well, maybe you’re the fool. You’re blinded by your own resentment, that’s what I think.” D’Artagnan could see his growing anger in the tightness of his stance, the edge to his voice. Aramis had pushed him about as far as he was willing to go.

“Quite frankly,” Aramis growled, “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m done with France and I’m done with you.”

Porthos shook his head. “And what if I don’t believe you?” he asked. His voice was steady, but d’Artagnan could hear an odd note in his tone – it sounded like an ultimatum, like a man offering one last olive branch as a final, desperate attempt at reconciliation.

Aramis’s face twisted into a cruel grin. “I’d be happy to convince you. Give me a pistol and I’ll prove it to you by finishing the job I started on d’Artagnan’s arm.”

The words knocked the breath out of d’Artagnan’s lungs, and he hadn’t even remotely recovered by the time Aramis hit the ground, slammed back by the power of Porthos’s fist connecting solidly with his jaw.

The smack of flesh hitting flesh echoed through the camp as Porthos landed a second punch, winding his fingers in Aramis’s dirty tunic to pull him up and hit him again when suddenly Athos was there at Porthos’s shoulder. He let Porthos strike one more time before he seized Porthos by the arm.

“Enough,” he said. Athos’s voice was steady and calm, with the undeniable note of authority that cut through any resistance.

Porthos released his hold and Aramis dropped to the ground, drawing in a harsh breath. He shot a fierce glare up at the two of them and d’Artagnan was struck by the utter wrongness of the sight before him: Aramis covering on the ground as Athos restrained a furious Porthos.

And now that he looked closer, beneath his calm veneer of command, Athos appeared almost as angry. D’Artagnan glanced around and saw two musketeers holding the Spanish lieutenant between them, and he realized that Athos must have finished questioning him for now and decided to return him to the rest of his men. If Athos had stumbled upon this twisted scene, what must he be thinking? How much had he overheard?

“Leave it,” Athos commanded. “We’ll finish questioning him later.” His eyes wandered across the rest of the prisoners, all watching warily. “As well as the others. Perhaps then they’ll be more cooperative.” Athos cast a pointed glance at the Spanish lieutenant, who seemed to understand the implied threat in his words.

Then Athos turned his full attention back to Porthos. “Come. We should eat. They aren’t going anywhere, and we’ll have plenty of time to continue this later.”

Porthos nodded and stalked off, anger radiating off him like a storm cloud.

Athos looked down at Aramis for a moment, then he turned as well, his hand coming up to touch d’Artagnan lightly on the arm and lead him away.

None of them looked back.


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis watched his three closest friends walk away, maintaining his stony expression and refusing to let his mask slip for a moment.

But behind that mask… Aramis couldn’t even stop to let himself feel. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself back together again.

He settled himself down on the ground, pulling his legs back underneath him to regain a semi-upright position. The movement caused a sharp gasp as the wound in his side made itself known. He shifted slightly, feeling the dampness sticking to his clothing just below his ribs. He’d managed to stop the bleeding once they’d arrived at the camp, but the wound must have reopened when Porthos hit him and he landed on the ground.

He bit back a breath that threatened to turn into something else.

God. Porthos had hit him. And he’d been asking for it.

He hadn’t been sure it would work, had been scrambling to find the right words that would push Porthos away, convince them that Aramis really was what he pretended to be. And then he’d glanced over Porthos’s shoulder only to see Athos returning with lieutenant Cordero and he’d known he had to end this before Cordero heard something he shouldn’t.

While Matías and most of the others understood only a few words of French, Cordero was nearly fluent. If he heard Porthos, if he discovered that Aramis was once a musketeer….

At that moment, Aramis had known there was no going back. He had to take this charade as far as he could.

Even if it tore him apart inside.

“What did you say to him?” Matías asked, voice little more than whisper. He was clearly shaken by what he’d seen, even if he didn’t fully understand it.

Aramis sighed. “I told him that I shot his friend…and then offered to finish the job.”

Unable to twist his bound wrists into an appropriate position, Aramis settled for pressing his arm against his wounded side, hoping the pressure was enough to stem the bleeding.

The confrontation seemed to have disrupted the balance of the camp, but it quickly regained its equilibrium. New guards came to relieve the ones who had been watching over them. The others wandered off (in the direction that Athos had taken d’Artagnan, Aramis noted). Soon they could smell wood smoke and cooking meat. Aramis did his best to ignore the smell, grateful that meal time had taken away enough of the musketeers that they were left with only the guards. No more questions for now.

But as the musketeers settled, Cordero made his way over to Aramis, subtly and silently, until he knelt beside him. Aramis noted the bruises forming along his jaw and cheek bone, and the swelling around one eye. Given the stiffness of in his movements, Aramis could only assume there were other marks concealed by his clothing. Apparently Athos had not appreciated whatever Cordero had to say…or what he didn’t say.

“What were you thinking? Do not speak to them,” Cordero hissed, emphasizing each word clearly.

“They spoke to me.”

“And now they know you understand their language. Do you not see how this places us at a disadvantage? Are you trying to betray our fellow soldiers by the wagging of your tongue or just get us all killed by provoking the Frenchmen?”

“I was trying,” Aramis snapped, “to focus their attention on me. Or would you rather they questioned the others?” He sent a pointed look at the other soldiers, worn out and dejected as they were, and then looked back to Cordero, raising one eyebrow.

He saw Cordero follow his gaze and come to the obvious conclusion. His men were already despairing of their situation, too exhausted and afraid to withstand any serious interrogation. But like Cordero himself, Aramis was older and more experienced than most of these men. And that experience was why he had been assigned to Cordero’s command. Well, that and his knowledge of the French countryside.

“Isn’t it better this way?” Aramis pressed his point. “Now they are focused only on the two of us. We can keep them away from the others, and we are both better equipped to handle whatever they might do.”

Cordero considered, but wasn’t ready to acknowledge the validity of this logic. “And yet, they know that you have knowledge of France. How does this help our cause?”

“An unfortunate misstep on my part. I admitted that I had lived in France for a time. But that is all. It’s just as I told you and the colonel…I lived in France for a few years and left when it was obvious that anyone of Spanish blood was reviled and treated with disdain. But knowing that does not give the musketeers any information of value, and it will serve to keep them focused on me.”

The lieutenant huffed his displeasure, unwilling to concede even this much. “You play a dangerous game, Renato. Make sure you tell them nothing else. If that clever tongue of yours lets slip any information – one bit of strategy or troop movements or even the name of our superiors – I’ll make sure it’s the last word you utter.”

“I rather think the French will see to that before you can.” Cordero glared at him, and Aramis finally relented, nodding his agreement. “But yes, I understand. I know as well as you do the value of discretion. And I know what’s at stake.”

“Then don’t forget it.” Cordero scowled at Aramis as he moved away, ostensibly to check on the others.

Aramis sighed and pressed his elbow more firmly against his injured side, suppressing a wince. He saw Matías cast a concerned glance his way, but he ignored it, settling down to make himself as comfortable as possible while he waited. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but he was certain that this tentative peace wouldn’t last. It was just a matter of time before Aramis would have to make a move, one way or another.

Now if he could just figure out what that move might be.

 

* * *

 

 “It just doesn’t make sense,” d’Artagnan grumbled.

Porthos was still simmering with anger from his position across the fire, but he said nothing, picking absently at his food.

“I tend to agree,” Athos said, “but Aramis can be capricious as well as stubborn. And it would be understandable if he felt a measure of resentment toward the king.”

“Doesn’t excuse treason.” Porthos scowled into his stew.

“I never said it did. But if we’re looking for an explanation, it makes some amount of sense.”

“But the things he said…” d’Artagnan trailed off, one hand coming up to cover the bandage on his arm. It was probably an unconscious gesture, but Athos found his gaze following it, imagining what would have happened if that musket ball hadn’t veered off target.

D’Artagnan looked up and caught both Athos and Porthos staring at him, eyes locked on his wounded arm. He flushed at their scrutiny, dropping the hand that had been absently rubbing the injury.

Aramis’s last words seemed to echo in all of their minds. Athos had known Aramis for many years and knew that he could be spiteful at times, even cruel when he felt slighted or trapped. Backing Aramis into a corner was a bit like confronting a wild animal, and if you didn’t keep your distance, you could find yourself on the ground with your throat ripped out. On rare occasions, when they’d pushed him too far or when Aramis felt bullied into something he didn’t want to do, he’d even turned his sharp tongue on Athos or Porthos. So Athos wasn’t entirely surprised by his outburst. But he’d never expected Aramis to outright threaten d’Artagnan.

“He always could be a ruthless bastard when he wanted to be,” Porthos mumbled.

Athos hummed his agreement, nodding. “And sometimes war does things to a man.”

When he looked up and caught the look on d’Artagnan’s face, Athos felt his heart clench; for a moment, d’Artagnan’s expression reminded him far too much of Thomas when his favorite puppy had gone missing. He’d mourned the loss of it for weeks.

He knew that d’Artagnan felt the sting of Aramis’s actions deeply, even if he was trying to put on a brave face. Athos had to look away, unable to withstand that look and wishing he had the gift of words to somehow soothe d’Artagnan’s sadness away.

“I wrote to him,” Porthos said suddenly. “I sent a letter to the monastery at Douai.”

“When?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Not long after we left for the war. It never sat right with me, ya know? We never heard anything from him, and when Tréville denied our request to go and see him… well, I just wanted to let him know I missed him…to say that things wouldn’t be the same without him.”

Athos could understand the sentiment. While this was d’Artagnan’s first real experience of war, the rest of them had been on campaigns before. Porthos and Aramis had experience in the infantry, years ago. But for Athos, his only campaigns had been in the musketeers, with Aramis and Porthos always at his side.

It had been hard to get used to the absence of one of their own…far harder than Athos would have admitted out loud. They’d been together so long that it almost felt like losing a limb.

“So I sent him a letter,” Porthos continued. “But a few weeks later it was sent back with a note from the abbé saying that Aramis couldn’t receive it. Said he’d renounced the things of the world and devoted himself solely to God.” Porthos couldn’t quite hide his own grief even as he spoke. “Aramis asked that my letter be returned and wished to inform me that his new calling left no room for the trappings of his old life.” Porthos set his bowl onto the ground, giving up even the pretense of eating. “And now we find him…like this.”

Athos stood, rooting around in the bag he’d thrown down at his feet and pulling out a bottle of decent wine. He held it out to Porthos. “Drink.”

Porthos took it, drinking deeply. “The good stuff? How long have you been hiding this?”

Athos shrugged. “Long enough. Today’s as good a day as any.”

Porthos nodded, drinking again before he passed it to d’Artagnan.

“I don’t suppose you learned anything valuable from their leader?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Other than that he is called lieutenant Cordero and that he speaks passable French, no. He refused to say any more, so we still have no idea if there are other encampments set up on our side of the border.”

“Damn,” Porthos swore. “It’s bad enough on the front, but to have them sneaking troops across the border this far from the rest of the fighting...it can’t mean anything good.”

“Do you think they intend to circle back and attack the main army from behind?” d’Artagnan asked.

“It’s possible,” Athos said, considering the possibilities. “But it’s also possible that this group was only a lone scouting party. Or they could be one of several raiding parties sent out to disrupt supply lines. We won’t know for sure until we can get one of them to talk.”

“Let me have a crack at them,” Porthos said. Athos raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Not Aramis, but one of the others. Maybe I can scare something out of ‘em.”

“Maybe tomorrow. For now, Bernard is on guard duty and keeping his ears open to glean anything they might say to one another. And Marcoux thought he was close to making some progress with one or two of them.” And though he didn’t say it, Athos was content to hand over this duty to the two of them. Though Athos’s knowledge of Spanish had improved over the past two years, he was thankful to have two men in his command who understood the language well enough to make themselves useful.

“They might not even know anything of value,” d’Artagnan pointed out, “especially if the Spanish are keeping their troop movements so carefully guarded.”

“Cordero should know something, at least, even if the others don’t.”

“Who’s the second in command?” Porthos asked.

Athos shook his head. “We’re not certain yet.” He didn’t want to say that he had his suspicions. He’d surveyed the group carefully when he returned Cordero. They were young, mostly. And according to Marcoux, Cordero had been leading the main ambush, but the first shots had been fired from the opposite side of the clearing. Athos was willing to bet that those shots had come from the second officer of the group.

He exhaled heavily and stood. The others glanced up at him expectantly, but he waved them off. “Stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To have a little chat with our prisoner.” Porthos started to rise as if to follow, but Athos shook his head. “No, no. You’ve already had your say. I’ll handle this myself.” He looked between them. “Check d’Artagnan’s wound when you get the chance. I won’t be long.”

He didn’t look back as he strode off towards the prisoners. He intercepted Marcoux on the way, conferring with him briefly.

“Anything?”

Marcoux shook his head. “Nothing new, captain. No one’s made any moves to escape, and they’re not talking…not even saying much to each other. We’ve questioned a few of them, off and on, knocked them around a bit. They might not be saying anything yet, but their morale is definitely low. It’s like they’re all trying to keep their heads down, hoping if they’re quiet we’ll ignore them.”

“Any serious injuries?”

“Not that we’ve seen…not that we examined them closely, but everyone seems more or less intact. Plenty of bruises and gashes.” Marcoux grinned slightly. “I might have added to those.” Athos felt his mouth twist slightly with a half grin in response. “A few of them managed to bandage each other up, so I wouldn’t be worried about valuable prisoners dying on us.”

Athos nodded. It was a fine line between keeping them alive to provide information and never allowing them to feel safe or comfortable.

“You planning on letting them eat tonight?”

“Eventually… for now, let them enjoy the smell of our food. Just before nightfall we’ll give them some water and bare rations…enough to dull the hunger without providing real satisfaction.”

“Yes, captain.”

Athos clapped him on the shoulder in approval and then surveyed the prisoners.

Cordero sat apart at one end of the group. He appeared to be sleeping sitting up, although that might have been a ruse. The others looked miserable, spread out a bit, with some leaning against each other for support, all carefully avoiding looking at the musketeers surrounding them. Then, on the opposite end of the group from Cordero, sat Aramis.

He looked nearly as miserable as the others, slumped forward with his arms held tight against his body. Some instinctual, protective impulse urged Athos to walk over and take pity on him, as he would have done in the past. But not now. Not now that Aramis had chosen his own side in this war, at the expense of their brotherhood. Athos could still see the hurt and grief painted across Porthos’s and d’Artagnan’s faces.

Athos could overlook much when he chose to. But not that.

As he stared at Aramis, a young Spaniard sitting nearby looked up and noticed him. He looked from Athos to Aramis before speaking softly. “Renato.” At the name, Aramis’s head jerked up. The young man tilted his head toward Athos, and Aramis followed his gesture to meet Athos’s eyes.

Athos sighed and walked forward until he was standing directly in front of Aramis.

“I don’t suppose you could do us both a favor and make this easy for yourself?”

Aramis didn’t respond, his eyes slipped across the camp to land on Cordero. Athos noticed and moved to stand between them, his back to the lieutenant, blocking him from Aramis’s line of sight.

“What do you want?” Aramis asked, his voice low and devoid of emotion.

Athos considered the question carefully. “I’m not entirely sure myself. An explanation, perhaps? Or perhaps I just want to confirm what Porthos has already said.”

“I don’t need to justify myself to you.” His voice was soft and controlled, but Athos could hear the tint of anger beneath it.

“Even if you tried, I doubt even you could find sufficient justification for treason.”

Aramis scowled slightly, looking towards the other captives before his eyes darted back to Athos. “You may call it treason,” Aramis said quietly, “but I see no shame in abandoning the service of a king who would command his most loyal servants to be executed based on nothing but rumors.”

For a moment, Athos was reminded of his own restless night in the châtelet, awaiting his execution before Aramis and Porthos had rushed to his rescue at the last possible moment, Aramis waving his pardon like a banner as he ordered the guards to stand down and release him. The images blurred with those of Aramis, being hauled away before he was eventually sentenced to death by Rochefort as the king stood idly by.

“We’re soldiers. We live and die at the pleasure of the crown. It will be no different for you now that you are fighting on behalf of a different king. The only difference is that you have thrown aside your last shred of honor when you betrayed your king and your countrymen only to exchange one master for another.”

Aramis looked at the ground and Athos saw him tremble slightly, but his voice remained calm and quiet. “You talk of loyalty and honor. But come now, Athos, you know it’s not as simple as that. Porthos and d’Artagnan may be naïve enough to follow Louis without question, but you and I know better. You especially, with your upbringing. We both know that the monarchy is in disarray. The king is foolish and easily manipulated. He is surrounded by advisors who care only for their own interests. And through it all, it is the people who suffer. And now he extends that suffering to the Spanish, lashing out like a petulant child. You’re not a fool; you must see it. But you’re content to sit by and do nothing.” Aramis looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. “It makes me sick,” he muttered.

Athos scoffed. “You can ply me with noble speeches Aramis, but I didn’t come here to debate with you. This isn’t about political alliances; it’s about personal ones.”

“They’re one in the same, Athos.”

“No, they most certainly are not. We’ve dealt with the political intrigues of court before. We always knew what we were up against, but we always stood against it together. Until now.”

“You expect me to apologize for that?”

Athos clenched his fist to keep himself from lashing out.

“After everything we have been through together, you walked away from us. And you lied about it. You joined forces with our enemies. You shot d’Artagnan. And yet you still show no regret… only insolence and self-righteousness.”

“Is that what really troubles you? That I shot your precious protégé? I’ve done far worse. But if that’s your main complaint, you should rethink your own actions. You can hardly condemn me for something you’ve done yourself.”

Athos winced, taken aback as much by the callous tone as the actual words. “I’m not the one who chose to turn my back on everyone he claimed to care for in the name of a misguided cause and his own injured pride.”

At these words, something inside Aramis seemed to snap. Anger flashed in his eyes and his jaw tensed in fury as he pushed himself up off the ground and onto his knees to face Athos on more equal terms.

“It’s better than bleeding and dying for the sake of a childish king who disregards his own soldiers without a thought, who’d betray his most loyal supporters, his personal guard, even his own queen, on nothing more than a whim. Just wait, Athos. He’ll betray you too.”

The furious hiss of Aramis’s words was enough to give Athos pause. He regarded the man kneeling before him, shoulders tense and face livid. When Athos replied, he spoke slowly and deliberately.

“Louis is, as all rulers, as much a victim of duty as we are, and he has often fallen to malicious advisers in the past. But he is still our king. And even if you are right, I am no stranger to betrayal.” Athos paused, searching every line of Aramis’s face for some hint of his friend behind the image of this Spanish soldier. He wished that he had Aramis’s gift for reading people; maybe then he would have been able to find something besides bitterness and anger. He shook his head sadly. “But I never expected such betrayal to come from you.”

Athos spun on his heel and left, unable to deal with Aramis’s hostility for another moment.

When he returned to his friends, d’Artagnan appeared to be dozing, leaning back against a nearby tree. Porthos sat near the fire, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees. He looked up expectantly, but Athos merely shook his head.

They sat across from each other for some time in companionable silence, wordlessly grieving the loss of a once loyal friend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, time for apologies, reassurances, and thanks. First - yes, this will be the last chapter for at least a few weeks while I'm away on holiday. I may have spotty wifi, so I might respond to comments, but I won't be able to write or update. But (and this is the reassurances section) I am loving every minute of writing this story and will certainly continue once I return. I also have the whole thing pretty well planned in my head, so the ending is already set and decided upon. And finally, thank you all for the warm reception of this story. I hope you continue to enjoy. Your comments and speculations so far have been greatly appreciated.

Aramis kept to himself after Athos left. He saw Matías and a few of the others shooting him glances, but none dared address him, as if they could see the anger roiling off him like steam from a furnace. Cordero, still sitting at a distance, said nothing. Aramis could only be thankful for that small mercy and hope that the lieutenant had heard nothing incriminating. He’d tried desperately to speak quietly and reveal nothing that couldn’t be explained by his cover story, but given that Athos had blocked his view, Aramis was hopeful that Cordero had heard nothing of consequence.

Either way, there was little he could do about it now. And quite frankly, Aramis didn’t really have the energy to care what Cordero thought anymore.

He couldn’t keep his mind from replaying everything he had said to the others, every last condescending word as he tried to push them away. It seemed to have worked. Porthos had been fuming when he left. Aramis had known exactly which buttons to push. Treating Porthos as though he were a fool when he knew that his friend had always been self-conscious about his lack of a formal education, when Aramis himself had repeatedly assured Porthos that he was one of the smartest men he’d ever met... and then threatening d’Artagnan…. If there was one way to antagonize Porthos it was to threaten those he cared about. The moment his protective instincts flared up, it was all over. And d’Artagnan…God, that look had been full of hurt and confusion because he just didn’t understand. He couldn’t. Then Athos walking away from him, looking so bloody _disappointed_ in him, had just been the nail in the coffin, the very last bit of anger and hurt that Aramis could take.

He wanted nothing more than to just find a hole to crawl into. But he couldn’t. So he sat, alone, visibly closing in on himself as he indulged his self-pity.

He stayed that way until after the sun had set and the air had grown cool, when the musketeers brought over several flasks of water and some rations – remnants of bread and dried meat which were clearly insufficient to feed all eight prisoners.

Somehow, Aramis felt amused in spite of himself. _Well played, Athos_ , he thought to himself. _Very well played._ The food and water would be enough to keep the prisoners alive and aware, but not nearly enough to satisfy the group of weary men who had spent a hard day fighting, only to find themselves battered, exhausted, and constantly on edge as the musketeers prowled about, watching them intently. It was a calculated decision, one step in a larger strategy to systematically demoralize the prisoners to the point where they were no longer capable of resistance.

And based on what he saw from the men around him, Aramis would hazard a guess that it was already working.

It was certainly working on Aramis.

He sighed heavily, bringing both bound hands to rub at one temple. His head was pounding again. He wondered if it was from the head injury or the beginnings of dehydration.

He glanced to the side to see his fellow prisoners eagerly dividing the rations amongst themselves.

“Hey, easy, Matías,” he said, halting his friend as he attacked a water flask as though he planned to swallow the object whole. “Small sips. Don’t waste it all at once. And eat slowly. It will do more good that way.” Matías attempted to comply. Garza and Ramón, who were sitting nearby, seemed to follow suit. The others were clustered a good ten feet away, nearer to the lieutenant. Aramis watched as they ate, looking forlorn and grumbling at the meager meal they had been forced to split between them. Aramis took a sip from the flask that Matías offered him, then handed it back. “We don’t know when we’ll next see food, so don’t rush through it.”

The thought seemed to worry Matías.

“But they can’t let us starve to death…can they?”

Aramis shook his head. “No, we’re no good to them dead. But that doesn’t mean they have to feed us well either.”

Matías shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the crust of bread held between his fingers. “But Renato…what use are we to them alive? I mean, what will they do with us?”

Aramis closed his eyes and let out a sigh. God, these men were so young, so naïve.

“They’re keeping us alive for information,” Garza said. “Isn’t it obvious from the questions they keep asking?”

It surprised Aramis to hear another voice, but when he looked he saw Garza and Ramón leaning closer to join the conversation.

Matías shook his head, eyes wide. “But I don’t know anything. Not anything important.” He looked to the others. “None of us do.”

“The lieutenant does,” Ramón said. “He must.”

“But _we_ don’t,” Matías insisted.

“Even if we did,” Garza said, voice lowering to a hiss, “we wouldn’t tell them. Right?”

“But then we’re no use to them,” Matías continued, working himself up into a state of near panic. “And when they figure that out…” he shuddered. “They might as well kill us now.”

“Stop it,” Aramis said. “Thinking like that will definitely get you killed. You need to stay calm.” His eyes moved about the group. “All of you. Just calm down.” He waited, watching Matías take a deep breath and making eye contact with all three of them. When he was convinced they were listening, he continued. “Now, if they wanted us dead, we would be. So let’s stop worrying about that and just get through the night, shall we? Take things one day at a time.”

They all acquiesced, returning to finish the few meager crumbs of food. They offered him his own share, but Aramis ate little. He took one more sip of water before handing the flask back to Matías and gesturing for him to finish it. While they were finishing, Aramis checked the gash in his side, relieved to see that the bleeding had stopped (again), though his shirt was stiff with dried blood. Finally, they worked to settle in for the night, trying to find some way to sleep despite their various individual pains and general discomfort. As they all lay down, growing quiet, Aramis sat watching the camp. The stars were beginning to come out and the evening chill sent a shiver down Aramis’s spine.

He watched the guards pull their cloaks about them, some sitting nearby, leaning against a tree trunk or sitting by a fire. Others walked around, stretching their legs. The rest of the camp was still, but it was a stillness that Aramis knew well – the dull quiet of a soldier’s camp at rest, the quiet of the night stretched taut with readiness as every soldier, even those already asleep, lay poised to spring into action if necessary.

Off to Aramis’s right, past the sleeping forms of his companions, Cordero sat upright, watching over the remainder of his men. He exchanged a brief look with Aramis, giving him a nod of acknowledgement before he stared back across the camp. Aramis wondered if he was formulating an escape plan. He hoped not. The risk was too great, and Aramis wasn’t ready to see any more soldiers killed today.

Aramis flexed his wrists slightly, testing the rope that bound him. It still dug into his wrists, stinging at the movement, and he worked gently to stretch it as much as possible. He continued to fidget, twisting his hands together, unaware that every movement rubbed his wrists raw as his thoughts continued to race, turning events over and over in his mind.

As the rest of the camp slept, Aramis sat quietly, huddled up against the cold and simply stared at the sky. He gazed at the stars until they began to blur and merged with the angry stares of his friends, emblazoned across his memory and dancing before his eyes.

He replayed every moment of the past few days, examining how he’d gotten to this point. He tried to plan his next move, testing out possible conversations and actions…confronting Cordero with the truth, or confessing to Athos or Porthos or d’Artagnan, even begging them to release him so he could return to Spain and complete his mission. He practiced the words he would use. For hours he ran through dozens of scenarios, from escape plans to his carefully rehearsed surrender, to an admittedly insane plan that involved usurping Cordero’s command, defeating Porthos in single combat, and escaping to Paris to demand that Louis call a cease fire and end the war. It was at about that point that Aramis realized he was no longer thinking clearly, as though his sleep-deprived and stress-addled mind was finally succumbing to hysteria.

Eventually, deep into the night, he found himself praying, hands awkwardly grasping for his well-worn rosary, fingers moving steadily over the beads, awkwardly counting the ones he could reach.

When dawn broke, Aramis was curled up on the ground, head resting on his bound hands. He hadn’t slept. Instead he emerged from the stupor of a restless night to a hazy early-morning wakefulness, head pounding and a growing sense of nausea slowly tightening its grip on him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so miserable.

He heard the other captives stir around him, but made no move to sit up. He simply stayed there, lying on the ground, staring blankly ahead. Some musketeers came. They asked questions, in French and heavily accented Spanish. Then they left again, new guards taking over for the morning as the camp slowly came awake. The familiar sounds of campaign life surrounded them – musketeers muttering to one another, food cooking, the metallic sounds of weapons being cleaned and sharpened – all signifying the start of another day at war.

Aramis found himself both hating it and aching to be part of it, to join the other musketeers in the comforting familiarity of battle preparations.

“Get up.” Aramis didn’t. “That’s an order, Renato.” It took Aramis a moment to register his Spanish name and realize it was Cordero speaking to him, not a musketeer. He twisted his head, rolling back to see the lieutenant crouched beside him.

Stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position, he squinted against the new day and rubbed at his head.

“What do you want, Cordero?”

“I believe that’s ‘lieutenant’ to you.”

Aramis grunted an acknowledgement.

“I need you to tell me…what’s their plan?”

“How should I know?”

“Don’t lie to me, Renato. You lived in France. And you clearly know something of these musketeers. And I need to know their next move”

“What are you going to do? Escape? We’re outnumbered by… I don’t even know how many. It would be suicide.”

“What,” Cordero hissed, “do you know about the musketeers?”

Aramis sighed. “Only their reputation…that they are the king’s elite guard with more specialized skills than the regular army. And this is clearly their main force because the regiment’s captain is here.”

“How do you know?”

“I recognized his uniform.”

“You know nothing more…no idea as to their plans?”

“No. How could I? Look, I heard rumors about them when I lived in France, everyone did. And I saw a few musketeers in a tavern once, when I was visiting Paris. But I don’t know anything else about them. Certainly nothing useful. I lived in the south, and only for a few years. I left because I knew of the French disdain for Spaniards and it was no longer safe.”

Cordero grunted. “So you’ve said.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.”

The lieutenant gave him a long, appraising look, eyes narrowed with what Aramis feared might be suspicion. Aramis stared back, trying to project honesty, letting his exhaustion and vulnerability show and hoping it was enough to convince Cordero that he was not lying.

“They’ll question us both again.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

“Tell them nothing.”

Aramis nodded in acknowledgement, but Cordero jabbed him in the chest, capturing his full attention with a glare. “You’ve already failed me once, Renato. You failed to kill the leader of that scouting party. If you tell them anything, even the smallest detail, I will count that as a second failure and a betrayal. Understand?”

“I won’t say anything,” Aramis said. “I swear.”

Cordero held his gaze before finally shoving his shoulder as he pulled back, an implicit threat before the lieutenant turned away to check on the others, keeping low and moving on his knees to avoid drawing attention to himself.

One by one, the captives woke, and cautiously watched the guards circle them. Eventually, someone came to take Cordero away. Aramis didn’t even look at him as he went.

It was obvious the lieutenant didn’t care much for Aramis. He never had, truth be told. But he’d valued Aramis skill with a musket, his knowledge of French language and trade routes, and his ability to rally the men in the midst of battle. But it felt as though this grudging admiration might be slowly turning to suspicion.

Or perhaps Aramis was just being paranoid. It was difficult to tell.

As the musketeers continued to ignore them, the prisoners merely sat in uneventful silence. A few hours must have passed like that. Aramis thought he had dozed off sitting up when Matías’s voice caused him to jerk back to full alertness.

“You were right. No breakfast. And they only took the lieutenant for questioning.” Matías looked at Aramis with eyes that were far too young and anxious for a soldier, and Aramis felt his heart go out to him. “What do you think will happen to us?”

Aramis reached out to touch his shoulder, feeling that he needed the contact as much as Matías did.

“They’ll keep us until they are convinced that we have told them all we know of value. Then, when we are no longer useful as informants, we will probably be moved. Maybe they’ll take us to a prison camp somewhere deeper in French territory. If we were important, they might take us to Paris to be imprisoned there. But I suspect we’re not worth that much trouble.” Aramis didn’t mention that _he_ might be worth such trouble. “If not a prison camp, we may be ransomed, or used in a prisoner exchange if they think we are worth something to our commanders back in Spain.”

“But are we? Worth something?”

Aramis shrugged. “Cordero is. I think Garza’s family has some influence. But it depends on how many French soldiers and officers are already captive back in Spain. They may need as many prisoners as possible in order to buy back their own men.”

It wasn’t Aramis’s preferred scenario. If they were meant to be part of a prisoner exchange, the French would never turn him over – not with what he knew about French military strategy. If Cordero really was useful, they might keep him as well. Then the two of them would be taken back to the nearest army fort (or even back to Paris) while the others were exchanged with Spain. Even if they did ransom him back to the Spanish, if his commanders were willing to pay for his return, Aramis doubted that Cordero would ever trust him again – not once the seed of doubt had been planted. And it would only take a few words to spread that mistrust, to ensure that Aramis was an outside and therefore useless as a spy…and so useless to the king.

Aramis fought against the headache that had returned, fidgeting restlessly and shifting against his bindings. He didn’t see any way out of this that involved both staying alive and out of prison and also completing his mission successfully.

Maybe he should just make a run for it and take his chances on his own, far away from the war. He closed his eyes to shut out the world around him, breathing deeply and allowing his mind to picture someplace safe and peaceful. He found his mind returning to his family home, relishing memories of a time that was simpler. But then Isabelle’s face flashed in his mind, and his breath hitched. He opened his eyes, saw the dirty musketeer camp, and realized that while his life had never been simple, it was too late to try and hide from it.

This was the reality he was faced with, and somehow, by the grace of God, he would have to decide what to do about it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look everyone, I'm not dead! I think some of you were starting to worry I'd abandoned this story. Not so! I've just been caught up in adjusting to real life and work after my holiday. This chapter also went through three versions, which delayed my posting (sorry...but I think it worked out in your favor. This is both the longest version and the one I liked the best).
> 
> After last chapter, it's obvious that some of you really hate Cordero (I can’t decide whether to be feel proud or vaguely disturbed by this). Well, fun fact: Cordero means "little lamb" in Spanish. Yeah, I know. How horribly inappropriate for our gruff Spanish lieutenant. But I didn't figure this out until I was already a several chapters into writing this, and as hard as I tried, I couldn't change his name. Besides, it's apparently a solid surname that goes back to the 1500s. Still, every time he’s being a jerk, just think of him as a lamb and see if that makes you laugh. :)

Aramis passed much of the morning in the same state of hazy fatigue, surrounded by his silent and miserable comrades until one of the musketeers came and began questioning them again. He’d started with Beltrán and Vicente, and Aramis wasn’t foolish enough to think that was a random choice.

Cordero was still gone, taken somewhere else within the musketeer camp. But in his absence it would make sense to start with those who seemed closest to him, those who’d hardly dared to leave his side. Aramis hadn’t failed to notice how their wayward group of captives had begun to fracture. He suspected the tension between himself and Cordero was partially to blame. Matías and a few of his friends had stuck close to Aramis, while others (like Beltrán and Vicente) had followed dutifully at Cordero’s side, staying near him throughout the night. Even yesterday, the cracks had been obvious in the way the captives positioned themselves, spread out between Cordero and Aramis as if being pulled in separate directions until they formed two camps – those looking to Aramis for guidance, and those who followed Coerdro’s lead in all things. And if Aramis had noticed the trend, there was no doubt that the musketeers had as well.

He winced as he heard Beltrán spit out a curse and take a blow to the jaw in recompense.

Aramis tried to listen as the musketeer continued questioning them, seemingly playing Vicente and Beltrán against each other, but Aramis caught only snippets of the exchange, quiet threats of a French prison mixed with implications that Cordero would eventually betray them. It was enough for Aramis to see the strategy: a classic divide and conquer tactic. Get the captives to distrust each other, wondering if their own friends would turn on them, and then see who would break first.

From his position on the opposite side of the group, Aramis remained quiet, straining to overhear while keeping his eyes averted. He didn’t dare move closer. It wouldn’t do to draw unwanted attention to himself.

When Vicente spit out a mouthful of blood and stared back defiantly, the lead musketeer must have decided it was time to switch tactics. Or victims. He scanned the group before his eyes landed on Ramón, hunched in on himself protectively.

Aramis bit back a curse. Ramón had been injured in the fighting, not seriously, but badly enough to make himself vulnerable. The musketeer stood above him menacingly. Clearly it was all Ramón could do to keep from shaking. So far, they’d treated the prisoners roughly, but not cruelly, limiting the damage to blows and bruises. But Aramis doubted Ramón could stand up to even that in his current state. Matías tossed Aramis a nervous glance, but he couldn’t spare any visible reaction. As much as he hated it, he had made himself enough of a target already.

He twisted his bound hands in front of him, continuing to work silently at the rope.

“What about you?” the musketeer asked. Aramis noticed his Spanish was a bit awkward, not quite up to the standards of the musketeer who had questioned them the day before. “Perhaps you know something. What’s your mission here?”

Ramón shook his head, looking down at the ground.

“How many others are in French territory?” Still, Ramón was silent. “We’ll find them eventually. So tell me…how many Spanish are here?”

“I don’t know anything,” Ramón said quietly.

“You don’t know or you won’t tell me?”

Ramón met his eyes for the first time. “Both,” he replied. Aramis saw the musketeer’s expression darken in frustration just before he drew back his foot, kicking out at Ramón’s stomach. The young Spaniard’s gasp of surprise was soon followed by a groan. The musketeer lashed out again, catching Ramón’s injured leg with his boot and pulling a sharp cry from his victim.

Aramis didn’t consciously think about his actions when he snatched up a nearby rock and threw it at the musketeer, striking him square between the shoulder blades. Only when the musketeer winced and turned to face him did Aramis realize what he’d done.

_Stupid, Aramis_ , he told himself. _What was that about not drawing attention to yourself_?

“You insolent dog,” the musketeer growled.

“You’re the one bullying an injured and defenseless man who has none of the information you require. I was told musketeers had more honor than that, but I was clearly misinformed.”

Aramis was prepared for the punch aimed his way, dodging it with a quick duck to the side as he pushed himself into a crouch. But the next punch found its mark, knocking the wind from Aramis’s lungs as it sent him sprawling backwards onto the ground. He curled over protectively, drawing his arms around himself as best he could and turning slightly to one side. That meant that when the next blow came, Aramis was angled away, protecting his injured side as much as possible. But it was still enough to leave him gasping as the musketeer’s boot connected sharply with his ribs, sending a burst of pain throughout his torso as Aramis wheezed. Another kick made Aramis’s eyes water and his chest burn, lungs fighting to expand even as his muscles seized.

Aramis blinked against the darkness dancing at the edges of his vision and focused solely on breathing, while the musketeer grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him to a nearby tree. Then he attached a length of rope to Aramis’s already bound hands, and hoisted the rope around the lowest tree branch, giving a harsh jerk before he tied it off. This left Aramis kneeling on the ground with his arms stretched out and suspended above him. He felt a brief flash of gratitude that he had been allowed enough slack to kneel, rather than being forced to stand. But when his vision cleared, any gratitude was chased away by the face of an angry musketeer and the glint of a knife pointed in his direction.

“Now who’s defenseless?”

Aramis tensed, drawing back and pressing his spine against the tree behind him.

But before he could decide if he’d finally gotten himself in over his head, another musketeer, the one who’d questioned them yesterday, stalked over, grabbing his younger comrade by the shoulder and pulling him aside. He dragged Aramis’s attacker several paces away, and Aramis allowed his head to roll forward in relief. The gesture probably made him appear as though he were only barely conscious – and considering that his throbbing head was now matched by aching ribs, that seemed like a fair enough impression.

“What do you think you are doing?” the new musketeer asked in French as he leaned close to his comrade.

“What you said to do…questioning the prisoners.”

“Really? Because that’s not what it looked like.”

“Marcoux…”

“No, don’t. Just…tell me what happened.”

“He got… feisty. Tried fighting back. So I decided we’d better put him back in his place and make sure he stays there.”

“Bernard, I told you. You have to keep your focus. Don’t let any of them get to you.”

“I know, but…”

“No! Look, I know you’re frustrated and I know you’re angry. But this isn’t the time to let your emotions get the best of you. This is about learning as much as we can to help stop future attacks before we have to hand these prisoners over to the general. Focus on that. And only that.”

The musketeer – Bernard – nodded. His comrade put one hand on his shoulder, his voice softening. “It’s war, Bernard. It’s not personal. And these men are not responsible for Lucien’s death.”

Bernard glared back, about to argue, but Marcoux was having none of it. “No. Go cool off. Get yourself under control. That’s an order.” The younger musketeer did as he was told. Aramis watched him through half open eyes. And he watched Marcoux as he looked over the prisoners, eyeing each one critically before moving forward, positioning himself in front of the assembled captives.

“We know there are other scouting parties, like yours, on French soil, and it’s only a matter of time before we capture them, just as we captured you.” He looked over the prisoners, watching as several of them shifted nervously. “There’s no rescue coming for you. But this could be much easier for you all if you just tell us what you know. I suggest you think seriously about your options.” With one last look, he turned and walked away.

Aramis sagged against the tree – at least as much as his new position allowed and tested the rope round his wrists, cursing to himself.

The rope securing him to the tree had been wrapped around his wrists, adding another layer to his bonds.

And he’d just been starting to make decent progress on loosening his ropes too.

Damn it. This would put a kink in his escape plans.

 

* * *

 

 The morning proved just as fruitless as the previous day, and in a fit of frustration, Athos had left the Spanish lieutenant alone to stew. Porthos and Marcoux had both taken a crack at him, but they’d made no more progress than Athos had. All they received were surly silences, occasional insults, and vague threats.

Athos had finally called a break when it was clear that they were all weary of such work.

Interrogating prisoners wasn’t anyone’s favorite pastime really, but in times of war, certain measures were called for. Unfortunately, most of Athos’s intimidation tactics were proving ineffective on the good lieutenant.

He sighed, returning to his tent and reaching for a flask. It was merely water, unfortunately, but he couldn’t afford to drink the way he used to. Not when confronted with long days and hot, dusty battlefields.

Drinking deeply, Athos pulled out a set of maps, spreading them across the table to examine them more closely.

They’d left their position farther north, where his men had been working as scouts, snipers, and light cavalry support for the main army, after receiving the latest dispatch from Tréville and its information on Spanish scouts and raiding parties. Their supply lines had been attacked three times in the last month, and the disruption was no longer just a minor nuisance. In addition, a scouting party of musketeers had been ambushed just two weeks ago. Five men, all dead.

Tréville’s latest intelligence suggested that the Spanish were receiving information from someone _inside_ France, and had provided a location where at least one Spanish party was located. That was how they’d found themselves here with their uncooperative Spanish captives, but they were no closer to learning where the Spanish officers were getting their information on French supply routes.

Of course, that information could have come from Aramis.

But that didn’t make sense either. When they’d altered supply routes, specifically to confuse any Spanish raiding parties, the Spanish had caught on in a matter of weeks. Yes, Aramis knew the area, knew the French roads, even knew the military strategies that Tréville and Athos favored most. But he couldn’t have known the precise location of French suppliers a matter of weeks after the new routes had been implemented.

And what’s more, something about this situation with Aramis still bothered him. Well, no, everything about it bothered him. Anything that led them to fight on opposite sides was just wrong. Yes, Aramis was no doubt bitter about his separation from his son and the queen. Athos could accept that, knew how Aramis would long to hold his son and how he would chafe at the necessity of staying away from the dauphin for his own protection. And yes, Aramis was clearly resentful of the king, feeling justifiably angry at the way the king’s capricious and selfish nature had caused hardship for them all. All of that Athos could understand, at least to an extent. He could even understand if Aramis was angry at him on a personal level. Athos had never hidden his disapproval of Aramis’s reckless behavior and his treasonous affair. But that Aramis would turn his ire on Porthos and d’Artagnan baffled Athos. That he would go to such extremes as to actually joining the Spanish cause…

As a military commander, Athos knew he should use this opportunity to his advantage, making full use of his personal knowledge of Aramis to press him for information. In spite of everything, he knew Aramis well, knew things about him that could be turned to the musketeers’ advantage. Athos knew how to rile him, which buttons to push to make him feel most vulnerable, knew the exact words that would make Aramis most likely to break and beg. He could manipulate him with information about the dauphin or play on Aramis’s guilt to force him to reveal Spanish secrets. Athos had no doubt it would be more successful than his attempts with Cordero had been.

But something stopped him. He couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but something from yesterday’s confrontation bothered him, something about the way Aramis spoke…quietly, with an air of defeat and an undercurrent of…something.

He sighed, sweeping aside the maps with a gesture of frustration.

Perhaps Athos was just too much of a coward to interrogate a man who he had considered his brother. After all, he’d never been able to follow through on punishing someone he loved, even when the betrayal warranted such a punishment. He thought of Anne and of Thomas, then shook his head.

He’d leave Cordero to stew for the afternoon and take the time to send out scouting parties of his own. He’d check in with Marcoux later. Then he’d decide what to do about Aramis. Maybe later he’ be able to face what had to be done.

But not yet.

 

* * *

 

Midday passed and as the afternoon hours began to drag by, Aramis allowed himself to doze off – at least, as much as possible given the discomfort of his current position. Still, he had no one to blame but himself. Porthos always did tease him for acting rashly, especially when he was too angry or too tired to properly think through his own actions.

_And this, my friend, is how you find yourself tied to a tree as a prisoner in a musketeer camp._

Still, despite the pressure on his knees and the ache of his stretched shoulders (not to mention the stinging rope burns around his wrists from where Aramis had tried to loosen the rope), he must have managed a few snatches of sleep because he returned to full awareness when he heard a voice talking nearby. Accented-Spanish. Must be another musketeer. Again.

“I can assure you, it will be better for everyone if you cooperate. We’re not interested in all of you. Just tell us: who is the lieutenant’s second in command?”

Aramis was careful not to react, but he did shift his position slightly so he could observe covertly through half-open eyes. It was Marcoux this time (apparently Bernard was still banished, much to Aramis’s relief), and he stood less than ten feet away, questioning Francis, who sat on the ground looking for all the world as though he wished to disappear.

“We know there’s another officer here,” Marcoux said. “And the rest of you are just grunts…common soldiers. We don’t have any special interest in you. So why don’t you just tell us…who do we want? Who’s the next senior officer?” Francis shifted nervously under the musketeer’s scrutiny. He said nothing, but Ramón, sitting close enough to witness his friend’s interrogation up close, sent a quick glance in Aramis’s direction. It was only a split-second, an unconscious gesture probably, but Marcoux noticed, turned abruptly, and looked Aramis straight in the eye.

Aramis merely stared back, too tired to muster any response. Both Francis and Ramón looked at the ground, radiating guilt.

Marcoux came to stand before Aramis, regarding him steadily as if assessing his potential value. Aramis stared back just as steadily, as if he was sighting down the barrel of a musket, refusing to back down even in his bound and vulnerable position.

“So, it looks like the captain does want to speak with you after all,” Marcoux said, still speaking Spanish.

Aramis had to resist a groan. _You have no idea_ , he thought. This man, Marcoux, was not one of the many musketeers who Aramis remembered. He must have been recruited after Aramis left. Or perhaps he’d been pulled into the musketeers from the regular army. Either way, it was clear that he didn’t know Aramis. Which meant that Athos had said nothing to his men, nor had Porthos or d’Artagnan. Aramis had to wonder whether this was a good sign.

“Tell me…is he right?” Marcoux gestured towards where Ramón sat, his eyes conveying a hundred apologies that Aramis easily accepted. The kid wasn’t ready for any of this, and Cordero had done nothing to prepare him.

“Are you second in command of this motely bunch?” the musketeer demanded.

Aramis looked up with a tired defiance, lips sealed.

“How many other scouting parties are in French territory?”

Still, Aramis said nothing.

“Look, let’s be reasonable about this. I need answers to report, and if you don’t give them to me, I’ll have to go back to asking one of the others. So just answer the question. Are you Cordero’s second?”

Aramis opened his mouth, but found his voice cracked, rough from disuse and lack of water. He coughed roughly until he’d regained his voice. Then he looked the musketeer in the eye and replied, switching from Spanish to his native French.

“Two of my comrades were injured in yesterday’s ambush. If you have someone clean and bandage their wounds, I’ll answer your question.”

The musketeer’s eyes widened at the sudden switch to French, then looked at him curiously, seeming to seek out the truth in his eyes.

Finally he nodded. “All right. I can do that.” Aramis waited, making it clear he would say nothing until the musketeer acted on his word.

Marcoux kept his eyes on Aramis as he turned to call for one of his friends, who ran to retrieve some bandages. When he had returned, Aramis nodded towards Matías and Ramón, watching as the musketeer set to unwinding the crude bandage Aramis had secured around Matías’s shoulder.

Then Marcoux drew a dagger and reached out, grabbed the rope that kept Aramis’s arms suspended and sliced it. The sudden jolt was almost more painful than the previous position as Aramis sunk heavily to the ground. He breathed deeply, flexing his shoulders gingerly to test their range of motion.

“I’m a man of my word,” Marcoux said. “They will both be taken care of. Now…your answer?”

Aramis took a deep breath, coughing once more to clear his throat.

“Yes. I am Cordero’s second in command.”

Marcoux grinned. “And how many other scouting parties are on our side of the border?”

Aramis shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The musketeer swore softly. “Liar. Try again. You said you’d answer my questions and so soon you break your word?”

“Well,” Aramis said with the hint of a grin, “technically I said I’d answer one question.”

Marcoux drew back and Aramis was sure he was about to receive another blow, but to his surprise the musketeer let out a huff of laughter. “So you did.” He seized Aramis and hauled him to his feet. “But that’s enough for me. I’ll leave the other questions to the captain.” He steadied Aramis on his feet, then gave him a shove forwards, keeping one hand on his shoulder as he urged him forward. “We’ll see if he finds you as amusing as I do.”

_He always did before_ , Aramis thought to himself, as he was shoved and prodded through the camp. _Well, usually. Except when he was just exasperated with me._ Now that he thought about it, Aramis had to resist the urge to swear. _Actually, Athos was usually exasperated with me…ah, hell._

When they stopped, they stood before a tent at the other end of the camp. Aramis was held by two guards while Marcoux entered the tent alone. A few moments later, he came out and pushed Aramis inside.

Once his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, Aramis found himself faced with not just Athos, but Porthos and d’Artagnan as well. And none of them looked terribly happy to see him.

“This is the second in command,” his escort said. “One of the others identified him, and he confirmed it.”

“Thank you, Marcoux. You may go,” Athos said simply.

So now Aramis was alone with all three of his former brothers, watching as Porthos glowered at him before looking away, pointedly avoiding eye contact and fiddling absently (and menacingly, Aramis thought) with a dagger. D’Artagnan stood back, arms crossed and back straight, frowning with an expression somewhere between surprise and dismay. And Athos… Athos just stood there. Impassive. Stony gaze revealing nothing.

Oh, how Aramis hated that expression. And he hated nothing more than seeing it directed at himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this until I was mostly finished with the next chapter. But it's been a shitty week, work sucks, and it's my fucking birthday. So screw it. I'm posting now.

Athos had spent the morning with the Spanish lieutenant again. Porthos had joined him…to _help_ , he’d said. D’Artagnan wondered how much of it was help and how much was an excuse to get out some aggression. He’d joined them for a while, watching silently but making no move to intervene. Athos asked the questions. Porthos was clearly there as intimidation and muscle – the added force behind the threatening tone of Athos’s voice.

Still, they’d made little progress.

They knew from Tréville that the Spanish had scouting parties on French soil. This group was the first they’d been able to capture, but they didn’t know how many other groups might still be at liberty. And they had no idea where the Spanish had received their information. Clearly someone – someone in France – was supplying the Spanish with knowledge of French supply routes. They’d fallen victim to three raids in the past month alone. The soldiers at the front couldn’t withstand the loss of any more valuable supplies, and Athos had sworn they’d put a stop to it.

But this Spanish lieutenant gave away nothing. Well, nothing except insults, that is. It was enough to make d’Artagnan wish he spoke Spanish. Some of those curses had sounded quite inventive.

Eventually they’d stopped, and Athos had left Cordero tied up and under guard, kept separate from the rest of his men in an attempt to divide and conquer, or at least grind down morale, while Athos returned to his own tent to reassess. He’d been in a foul mood all day, as had Porthos, leaving Marcoux to handle the other prisoners alone. The one time Marcoux had attempted to consult with Athos, the captain had merely told him to handle it on his own and not return until he had something new to report.

D’Artagnan winced and exchanged a commiserating look with Marcoux, who merely shrugged and went back to his assigned duties.

That left Athos silently brooding and mulling over dispatches from Tréville while Porthos stalked through the camp like a bear looking for someone to swat at. They’d spent the whole afternoon like that, Porthos too angry and Athos too lost inside his own thoughts to notice that the rest of the men were giving them a wide berth.

It left d’Artagnan a bit lost, following in their footsteps because he wasn’t sure where else to be. They were all off balance. But then, hadn’t they been that way for a long while now? Ever since Aramis had left for the monastery, they’d been like an injured man who refused to admit his own infirmity. And now, to find out where Aramis had truly been…had he ever even gone to the monastery?

D’Artagnan tried not to think of such things, but it was difficult. The reminders were everywhere. So instead he found himself holed up with his two brooding friends inside Athos’s tent, the captain studying maps for the fourth time this afternoon while Porthos sat perched on a nearby stool and glowered like a thunder cloud as he set about cleaning and sharpening a dagger. D’Artagnan did not dare point out that the weapon was already sufficiently well cared for.

“Didn’t Tréville give any idea of how many Spanish had crossed the border?”

Athos shook his head. “He did not. He merely referred to credible information that ‘several scouting parties’ were in French territory to gather intelligence and disrupt supply lines, and then directed us to begin our search in this vicinity.”

“Well, that’s not vague at all,” Porthos muttered.

“Presumably Tréville’s informants had no more precise information,” Athos said, with a sharp look to Porthos before he returned to studying the map. D’Artagnan detected the slightest note of rebuke in his tone, a subtle warning that Porthos’s bad mood did not excuse disrespect to their superiors…or at least to Tréville.

“Still…doesn’t give us much to go on.”

“It was enough to help us find this group,” d’Artagnan pointed out. “So why not send out a few more scouts. Maybe we’ll get lucky a second time.”

“Two Spanish raiding parties operating in close proximity?” Athos raised one eyebrow. “Not likely. The other groups will be scattered throughout French territory.”

“So we move camp then. Try a location to the west. Or the south. Either one would be a likely target. And we know their strategy now.”

“Yeah, but it’d be a shot in the dark,” Porthos said, looking down at the dagger in his hands. “We had good reason to suspect we’d find something here, but if we just make a random guess…we’ll be as likely to be ambushed ourselves as anything.”

D’Artagnan sighed. He knew they were right, but he was as frustrated as any of them. With the prisoners keeping quiet, they were essentially just sitting and waiting for another Spanish raid. And no one knew when or where they were most likely to strike next.

“I have two scouts out now,” Athos said. “We’ll see if they’ve found any tracks before we decide.” Athos settled into a chair and ran one hand across his forehead.

Porthos leveled a speculative look at Athos before speaking, his tone hesitant. “We’d be better off if our…guests…could be induced to share some information.”

Athos glared at him. “Obviously.”

The two seemed to hold some kind of silent conversation, staring at each other for a long moment before Athos shook his head and looked away.

Porthos merely sighed and turned back to sharpening his dagger, while d’Artagnan leaned up against the table, staring blankly ahead. He wasn’t sure what his two friends had just been silently debating, but he could guess. Interrogating prisoners was messy business, not to mention time-consuming. And there were no guarantees they’d learn anything of value even in the best of circumstances. And, of course, this didn’t qualify as the best of circumstances.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, d’Artagnan looked up to see Marcoux enter the tent. Athos made no move to greet him, head still bent and one hand absently rubbing his temple as if messaging a headache.

“Captain?” Marcoux asked.

“Yes, what is it? And please tell me you have something new.”

“Of a sort. Bernard didn’t make any real progress, though he did rattle some of the soldiers a bit. But I’ve identified the other officer, Cordero’s second in command.”

Porthos looked up suddenly, interest piqued. “Yeah?”

Marcoux nodded. “Yes, sir.” He looked back to Athos. “I’ve brought him, captain. I assumed you’d want to question him yourself.”

Athos let out a long breath as he stood up again, pacing a few steps before he turned to Marcoux. “Yes. Good work. Bring him in.” Marcoux nodded and exited the tent to retrieve his prisoner, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but notice the way Athos straightened, as if steeling himself for a particularly unpleasant task. This was good news, wasn’t it? Everything they could learn from their captives increased their chances of preventing future raids. So why did Athos look so…unsettled?

Marcoux returned presently, pushing Aramis forward in front of him. And d’Artagnan had to resist the urge to let his disappointment show. Aramis as a Spanish soldier was bad enough. But an officer?

And there it was. A quick glance to Athos confirmed that this wasn’t as much of a surprise to him as it was to d’Artagnan and Porthos, who shook his head in disgust.

“This is the second in command,” Marcoux said. “One of the others identified him, and he confirmed it.”

“Thank you, Marcoux. You may go,” Athos said simply.

He left a deafening silence in his wake as the four of them stood stock still, no one daring to open their mouths to speak. For his part, Aramis looked like a statue, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. But d’Artagnan could see the rigidity in his stance, the way he braced himself, tense and defensive. His expression was wary and uncertain, as if he had no idea what to expect, but felt compelled to prepare for the worst.

If he was honest, d’Artagnan knew exactly how he felt.

Porthos huffed in frustration and looked away first, which seemed to break the awkward stare off. Athos stepped forward, seizing the chair he’d recently vacated and swinging it around to place it in the middle of the tent.

“Sit,” he said, with a gesture.

Aramis looked from Athos to the chair as though he wasn’t sure which of them was least trustworthy. He must have hesitated a moment too long because Athos seized him by the elbow, eliciting a slight wince from Aramis, and propelled the man forward. Aramis scuffed his feet, moving stiffly, but he complied, moving towards the chair where Athos pushed him down with one hand. Aramis sunk heavily into the chair, swallowing and taking a deep breath as he looked back at Athos. But the captain had already turned away, stepping out of Aramis’s reach and beginning to pace around Aramis, like a predator circling its prey.

Still, no one spoke, and the silence was almost worse than anything. The only sounds were the scrape of metal as Porthos continued sharpening his blade, the soft padding of Athos’s footsteps as he paced, and Aramis’s breath, just slightly too loud and too harsh to speak of anything but nervousness.

And now that d’Artagnan had a moment to look, he saw bruises decorating Aramis’s face – at his temple, one cheekbone – and dark circles under his eyes. Above those shadows, Aramis’s gaze darted quickly around the tent, landing on each of them, cataloging each item, the table, the maps, before returning to each of the three musketeers. The silence grated on him, and d’Artagnan could see the moment when Aramis’s natural inclination to speak overpowered his nerves.

“Athos…”

But he got no farther, cut off by Athos’s cool, emotionless tone.

“How many other Spanish soldiers are currently in French territory?”

“Athos…”

“No!” the Captain snapped. “How many?”

Aramis’s eyes sunk closed, as if in defeat. “I don’t know.”

“How many raiding parties have already crossed the border?”

Aramis shook his head, but didn’t so much as open his eyes.

“When will the next supply raid take place?”

If anything, Aramis squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, head bent in resignation. But he made no move to speak.

“How did you learn to anticipate our supply routes?”

Still nothing.

“Who is your French contact who provides you with this information?”

At that, Aramis’s eyes opened and he looked up. “I don’t know,” he said in a clipped tone.

Porthos chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Convenient how little you know, ain’t it?”

“Less so than you might think,” Aramis replied.

“You’re an officer in the Spanish army,” Athos stated, and it wasn’t a question.

“I’ve already said that I am.”

“And you are Cordero’s second in command.”

“Yes.”

“But you expect us to believe you don’t know anything of value?”

Aramis sighed. “What you believe really doesn’t matter much at this point.”

Porthos swore and tossed his dagger to the ground, standing so abruptly that Aramis tensed at his sudden movement. “Like hell it doesn’t. Do you have any idea how close you are to a traitor’s execution right now?”

“I am acutely aware of it, yes.”

“Yeah, well this time there will be no rescue and no noble cause to comfort yourself with,” Porthos said, coming to stand directly in front of Aramis. “You won’t be dying to protect the queen.” Aramis winced, his gaze dropping immediately to the ground as his bound hands shifted nervously in his lap. “There’s no noble death here, no last minute pardon, and no miraculous escape. So you’d better start talking.”

He didn’t look up, eyes fixed on his bound hands, and when he spoke, his voice was neutral, but d’Artagnan heard the tinge of hurt beneath the calm voice. He knew Aramis well enough to notice. The others must have heard it too. “I have nothing to say,” Aramis said.

Porthos clenched his jaw, his frustration evident in the lines of his shoulders.

“You? Speechless? Come on, you can’t expect me to believe that. It’s been over two years. How can you have nothing to say?” Porthos demanded.

“Perhaps I’m just picky about my choice of conversation partner.”

“Pickier than in your choice of comrades, I suppose? Well, it shouldn’t surprise me with the way your romantic liaisons changed from day to day. Why should your professional loyalties be any different?”

Aramis drew in a sharp breath. His fists clenched and d’Artagnan saw a shudder pass through him, shoulders shaking slightly as he restrained himself. Watching this was like waiting for a powder keg to explode in front of him, and d’Artagnan could see how close Aramis was to giving Porthos exactly the kind of explosion he was after.

Aramis’s voice dropped to a low hiss. “You don’t know anything about my loyalties.”

“Perhaps not,” Athos said. “But if your loyalty to us ever meant anything, then I’d suggest you start answering our questions. Honestly, this time.”

“Come on, Aramis.” D’Artagnan stepped forward, catching his attention. Aramis’s eyes darted towards him, then back to Athos, and finally landing on Porthos. For a moment, he looked like a caged animal, eying his captors warily and waiting for one of them to strike him. The defensiveness in his eyes almost made d’Artagnan forget that Aramis no longer considered himself their friend.

Aramis looked down, hands fidgeting nervously while he chewed on his lip.

“Even if I wanted to tell you,” Aramis said, “I don’t know anything of value to you.”

“That seems unlikely,” d’Artagnan said. “You’ve been with the Spanish for long enough. You have to know something.”

Aramis didn’t look up, avoiding d’Artagnan’s eyes, only giving a small shake of his head in response.

With a frustrated sigh, Porthos turned away. “Ya know, I’m not sure it matters. After the kind of garbage you’ve been spouting off since we found you, I’m not sure I’ll believe anything that comes out of your mouth.”

D’Artagnan thought he saw Aramis wince at that, but it was so subtle he couldn’t be sure. Either way, Porthos hadn’t seen it. He’d been walking away, his back to Aramis as he spoke, retreating to his stool in the corner of the tent where he picked up his dagger again.

“Where is the nearest Spanish encampment?” Athos asked. His tone was still perfectly level, cool and calm, as he returned to his questions. Porthos looked deflated, giving up even the attempt to rile Aramis. And d’Artagnan felt wrung out by the tension that hung between them all, stretched so thin it could snap. But Athos…he was just as calm as though this was nothing, as though it was a simple duty and Aramis was no different than any other prisoner.

Even after all this time, it was unnerving how Athos could go so still, could make his expression so stony and unreadable. D’Artagnan had gotten better at reading Athos over the years, could usually sense his moods now, the way Porthos and Aramis had always done. But not when he got like this. They’d joked once that it was his leadership face, all blank authority that demanded unquestioned obedience while giving nothing away. He remembered how they’d laughed then, first at the joke and then even more at the distinctly unamused expression Athos had given them in return. But it wasn’t funny now.

“Who gave you orders to enter French territory?”

Aramis said nothing.

“Who commands the other raiding parties?”

Again, nothing. As Aramis sat, silent and still, d’Artagnan wondered how long Athos would go on like this. But he didn’t stop. Aramis let himself slump forward, looking exhausted. But he offered no more response than the occasional shake of his head or a mumbled “I don’t know.” It didn’t seem to deter Athos, who continued battering him with questions.

“When will the next raid take place?

“Which roads are being watched by Spanish troops?

“How long did you plan for this mission?

“How did the Spanish recruit you?”

Athos stopped for a moment, stepping forward to tap Aramis on the check and get his attention. His eyes looked a bit unfocused, as though he’d stopped listening at some point and only now noticed that Athos had moved closer to him.

“Come on, Aramis. Who provides you with information about French supply routes?”

He shook his head yet again. “I don’t know.”

“Were you part of the force that attacked a company of musketeers two weeks ago?”

“No,” Aramis answered instinctively, as though he’d momentarily forgotten his own determination to keep quiet.

“Have you ever been to the waters of Forges?” Athos asked.

Aramis’s head jerked up, his eyes wide and suddenly meeting Athos’s, the glazed expression replaced with unmistakable surprise. “What?” his voice broke, croaking on the single world.

Athos leaned in closer, speaking slowly. “Have you ever been to the waters of Forges?” Aramis opened his mouth, but no words came. If he’d been less confused, d’Artagnan might have been amazed at the sight of Aramis so clearly tongue-tied.

“Answer me, soldier!” Athos snapped.

Aramis drew in a quick breath and answered softly, voice suddenly going calm and quiet. “No, I’ve never been. I planned to once, but I was detained on business and forced to change my travel plans.”

Athos nodded before responding coolly. “What a shame. They say the waters of Forges have healing properties, though I understand they do little for musket wounds. And where did your business take you?”

D’Artagnan frowned, confused by the abrupt change in both the conversation and in Aramis’s demeanor. What did Forges have to do with anything? He exchanged a quick glance at Porthos and saw him watching curiously, but when d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow in question, Porthos merely shrugged and shook his head, apparently as baffled as d’Artagnan.

“To Calais,” Aramis said. He was still looking Athos in the eye. “I was searching for a jeweler and a thief, but they turned out to be one and the same.”

Aramis said nothing else, but the apparent nonsense about Calais and thieves must have meant something because Athos nodded, taking one step back. He turned around for a moment, letting out a long sigh and rubbing his forehead wearily with one hand. When he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper. “Damn it, Aramis.”

Aramis nodded. “I know.”

Athos spun around to face Aramis again. “How long?” he demanded.

“Since the day I left Paris.”

Athos cursed under his breath.

D’Artagnan glanced wildly between the two of them, but they paid no heed, locked in a standoff that carried some secret meaning known only between themselves.

When Aramis spoke again, it was a soft whisper of resignation and regret. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” The words came from Porthos, an incredulous growl that immediately commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

“Sorry for what?” Porthos pressed, stalking forward until he stood directly in front of Aramis once again, crowding into his space. “Sorry for lying? Sorry for betraying the musketeers? Or sorry for turning your back on us?”

Aramis looked up at him, dark eyes dull with weariness. “Porthos…”

“No, you tell me. What are you sorry for? For treason? Because the last time you committed treason, you didn’t seem terribly sorry afterwards. In fact, you lied about that too.”

“To protect you.”

Which was apparently the exact wrong thing to say as Porthos seized Aramis by the shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Don’t. Just don’t.” He gave Aramis a shake. “I don’t want to hear it anymore. I’m done listening to your justifications and your sanctimonious speeches.”

Aramis’s breath hitched and he closed his eyes briefly before meeting Porthos’s gaze head on.

“Then what are you waiting for? You might as well put me out of my misery before Louis gets around to it.”

Porthos flinched as if the words stung. But d’Artagnan saw his anger still bubbling, one hand gripping Aramis by the shoulder hard enough to bruise, while the other fist clenched tightly around the collar of his shirt. It was like they were caught in a web, held up only by the tension pushing them apart. But when it looked like Porthos would be the first to snap, the first to lash out physically instead of with mere words, the sound of Athos’s voice shattered the tension.

“Porthos, let go of him. He’s not our problem anymore.”

Porthos jerked, his head spinning to stare at Athos, incredulous. “What are you talking about? He’s a Spanish soldier, ‘an he’s our prisoner. Of course he’s our problem.”

Athos shook his head. “Not anymore. He’s outside of our jurisdiction now. You can’t lay a hand on him.” Porthos stared back, unmoving. “Let go of him, Porthos.”

“Why?”

“Because Aramis is an agent of the French crown, and as such, he’s beyond our authority.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger-esque ending? I promise that all will be explained.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your patience and your support, and my apologies for the long wait on that cliffhanger. This chapter just kept getting longer and longer. I finally had to add a chapter break mid-scene, which I'm not pleased with. But it was either end the chapter here or let it keep going for another 4k words. So this is what we have.  
> But Snow_Glory...the chapter ending is for you. :)

At Athos’s words, Porthos abruptly released him and Aramis dropped back into the chair with a thud. Truth be told, it was a bit of blessing. He hadn’t expected the rush of lightheadedness that overcame him the moment Porthos pulled him to his feet, and Aramis realized that it really was becoming difficult to remain standing upright feet without assistance.

“He’s what?” d’Artagnan’s shocked voice broke the silence.

“He’s a French spy,” Athos said. “Reporting directly to Tréville, if I’m right.

Aramis nodded, but it set his head spinning. He took a breath and kept very still while waiting for the world to settle around him. “Yes,” he murmured, eyes fixed in front of him, unable to fully meet anyone’s gaze. “I report through coded messages sent through a series of confidential dispatchers.”

Porthos swore. Aramis couldn’t help but silently agree with him.

“You lying bastard.” Porthos’s voice was low and rough as he spoke, shaking his head. But before Aramis could even decide whether he was expected to reply, Porthos had turned to Athos. “Are you sure about this? How do we know he’s not spinning some elaborate lie now that he’s caught?”

Athos raised one eyebrow, giving Porthos his sarcastic stare. “Porthos…” he said, the drawl conveying quite clearly what he thought about Porthos doubting his assessment of the situation.

Porthos let out a huff of annoyance. “Yeah, okay. Oh course, you’re sure, or you wouldn’t have said anything.” He kicked his stool roughly, sending it toppling to one side. “But damn you, Aramis. Damn you and Tréville both.”

Aramis figured he was already damned and he didn’t need Porthos’s help in that department. A shiver seized his body as he imagined what King Louis would do with him now…now that he’d blown his cover, failed his mission, and proven himself to be an utter disappointment as a spy. They all knew Louis didn’t take disappointment well. The bastille didn’t seem like an unreasonable prediction for Aramis’s new accommodations.

“Would someone mind telling me what Forges and Calais have to do with anything?” d’Artagnan asked sharply.

“It’s a code,” Athos said. “Before we left for the front, Tréville ordered me to memorize a series of coded phrases and the correct responses. When I asked if Aramis had visited the waters of Forges, I was really asking if he was engaged in some larger deception…if he was intentionally lying to us to protect some greater secret. His answer about changing his travel plans confirmed my suspicions.”

“Calais meant espionage,” Aramis said quietly. He felt everyone’s eyes on him and he shifted uncomfortably. While d’Artagnan’s expression was open, full of slowly fading confusion and more than a little shock, Porthos stared back, stony-faced and eyes narrowed. Then Athos spoke, drawing their attention back to himself. But Aramis could still feel Porthos simmering.

“When Aramis mentioned a jewel thief, he declared that he was working for the king – our king.

“So you knew?” Porthos demanded. “You knew he was a spy, and you didn’t say anything?”

“Of course not,” Athos said. “I knew Tréville had spies at work in Spanish territory. He still does, I’m sure. But their identities were kept from me.”

“But you suspected.” The sharpness in Porthos’s tone made Aramis hunch in on himself, even if the words were directed at Athos. Sitting in the chair with his hands still bound, Aramis was supremely conscious of his own vulnerability. He felt as though he’d been cracked open, left exposed and striped of all defenses.

The pounding headache didn’t help matters either.

“Vaguely. I wasn’t sure of anything, and I’d only just realized that Aramis might be more than a simple Spanish soldier,” Athos said. Porthos seemed unmoved by this, and Athos sighed. “Porthos, I didn’t want to give you reason to hope until I was certain. Besides, Tréville’s orders were to maintain the anonymity of our spy network. That was the whole purpose of the code, and I hadn’t even thought of using it until earlier today. But I had to be certain. If I wrong, then Aramis wouldn’t give the appropriate reply, and it would be just another question in the middle of a prolonged interrogation.”

“But what made you suspect?” Aramis asked. Athos raised one eyebrow, a sarcastic look that demanded to know whether he was truly serious. Aramis forced a bit of lightness into his tone, a hollow imitation of the teasing banter that once would have come so effortlessly to him. “If I’m to be a failed spy, I think the least I deserve is to know what I did wrong.”

“Very well. It was something you said yesterday.” Athos glanced briefly at d’Artagnan before returning to Aramis. “You said that I couldn’t be angry at you for shooting d’Artagnan when I’d done the same thing myself.”

“When we went after your wife,” Porthos said. Athos nodded, looking again to d’Artagnan.

“Don’t tell me you still feel bad about that?” d’Artagnan said. “It was part of the plan. I agreed to it.”

“Yes, a plan made to maintain our deception. And when we made that plan, I was supposed to shoot you in the arm,” Athos pointed out.

“But it was dark. And you had to make it believable.”

“I was drunk,” Athos corrected. Then pointed to Aramis. “But he wasn’t. And even caught off guard in the midst of a pitched battle, Aramis is still a better shot than I am sober.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. “You did it on purpose.” Aramis met his eyes briefly before looking away again, not willing to accept the quick forgiveness he saw there. He’d still shot him, after all.

“You shot d’Artagnan exactly as we planned for me to do…a flesh wound to the upper arm.”

“It was coincidence,” Aramis said. And he meant it. “I didn’t think it through that thoroughly.”

“And you know better than anyone that in the midst of a battle, it’s not what you plan or what you think, but your instincts that decide the outcome.” Athos rested a hand on his shoulder. Aramis felt his breath catch at that subtle touch, unable to admit how much he’d missed such a casual display of friendship. “Your instincts told you to make the shot that I missed,” Athos said.

Aramis wanted to believe that, wanted more than anything to trust Athos. But he also remembered that moment, immersed in battle and overwhelmed by the sounds of fighting. From the moment when he saw Porthos enter the clearing, he’d known that he’d never be able to kill him. But once he’d missed that shot, once he’d intentionally fired at the ground and made his shot go wide, Cordero would never believe he would miss twice in a row. With Cordero’s suspicion hanging over him and his Spanish comrades falling all around him, Aramis had slipped into the role of a good soldier, the role he’d played so well in so many battles. He’d had no choice but to take the shot. But as he’d aimed at d’Artagnan, a single stray thought had floated through his mind: if he had to shoot a friend, at least it wasn’t Porthos.

And he hated himself for even thinking such a thing.

“It’s not the same,” Porthos growled. “It’s a deception, sure, but it ain’t the same.” Aramis looked up and saw that Porthos had gone frighteningly still and straight as a statue, looming before him as the others seemed to fade into the background. “With Milady, it was a plan we’d all discussed. We knew what was at stake, an’ we all agreed to it. This is nothin’ like that.”

Aramis swallowed heavily. “Porthos...”

“No. It’s one thing when we’re workin’ together. It was one thing when we pretended to turn on d’Artagnan and when we faked Athos’s death. There was a purpose to that, and we were in it together.” He pointed an accusing finger at Aramis, who felt the need to shrink back, hunching in on himself. “But this is just you goin’ all lone wolf like some kind of idiot.”

“It wasn’t by choice,” Aramis mumbled.

“Really? From what I’ve seen the last two days… didn’t seem much like you resisted it. In fact, sounded like you were enjoyin’ yourself. I do know how you love to play games, Aramis. Use that famous wit of yours to outsmart everyone, don’t you? I bet you jumped at the chance to try your luck as a spy. You can charm and scheme your way out of most anything, and you always were good at sorting through tangled politics and subtle manipulation. Just couldn’t resist it, could you? You even relished it, I imagine.”

Aramis found his breathing quicken and for a moment he thought he’d be sick. He closed his eyes, fighting back a sense of nausea. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like then?”

“It was orders. It was penance. I didn’t chose it, I…” He breathed deep as the words caught in his throat, opening his eyes again. “I was following orders. Just like you. Just like those Spanish soldiers have been doing. Don’t you see? We’re all just following orders from someone.”

“Doesn’t really matter whose orders they are, then? One king is as good as another?”

“I didn’t say that,” Aramis snapped.

He was exhausted. His head still ached and every muscle in his body felt besieged by weariness, taxed by sleepless nights, the rough treatment, and the stiffness from being bound for nearly two days. And he just couldn’t face another accusation right now. Even if he did deserve it.

He cast a quick glance to the others. Athos and d’Artagnan stood side by side, watching as if waiting to see the outcome. They didn’t appear nearly as furious as Porthos, but then again, perhaps they were just better at hiding it. And the two impassive stares (d’Artagnan must have been learning from Athos, he thought) were no more reassuring than Porthos’s righteous fury. He took a deep breath before marshalling himself to speak again.

“You may not like it,” Aramis said, feeling the fatigue push him slowly into anger. “I don’t like it either. But we both serve the same king. Our orders come from the same place. And I have no more control over them than you do.”

Porthos was not pacified. Not that Aramis truly expected him to be.

“I don’t care about your orders, Aramis. I care about loyalty.”

“And in order to prove my _loyalty_ ,” Aramis hissed, “I have to follow my orders.”

“Even when it means fighting against us? Fighting for the Spanish?”

“Yes! It’s war, Porthos. It’s not pretty, but if you think the war effort relies merely on the strength of its soldiers, then you’re more naïve than I thought. France needs spies as much as it needs musketeers.”

“Yeah, so who better to do the spying than you, is that it? And what good did it do you, eh?” Porthos stepped forward. “Tell me how all of your spy work has paid off then. Because from where I’m sitting, it hasn’t helped us one damn bit.”

“How would you know? You don’t even know what I’ve been doing for the past two years.”

“Raiding French supply routes and attacking our scouts, I presume?”

The words landed like a slap, and Aramis was sure he could feel the blood drain from his face. “No,” he hissed. “I’ve been trying to find the French intelligence leak so we could put a stop to all that.”

“So who is it?” Porthos asked. “Who’s been giving information to the Spanish.”

Aramis gritted his teeth. “I don’t know.”

Porthos scoffed. “Some help you are then.”

D’Artagnan stepped forward, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. “Porthos, maybe…”

“No. He’s so sure we’re on the same side, so intent on defending himself as a valuable French spy. Well, he doesn’t look terribly useful to me. Looks like we’re better off on our own.”

The slow-simmering defensiveness was beginning to make Aramis’s blood boil, the anger pulsing in time with his pounding head. He’d sacrificed over two years to this mission, and for Porthos to throw it away as if it were nothing… And it was better to give in to the anger than to feel the hurt of Porthos’s casual rejection.

“Really? Then answer me this…how did you manage to capture us, if you don’t mind my asking?” Aramis said, the hint of a smug grin tugging at his lips. “If these Spanish raiding parties have been so much trouble, how did you just happen upon us?”

“Based on information from Tréville. Seems your Spanish friends aren’t so good at keeping secrets.”

Aramis glared. “Tréville got that information from me. You only captured us because of my information. Otherwise you wouldn’t have known we were even here.”

“There’s irony for you,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Explains why the information was such crap then. No details, no troop positions, not even an indication of how many raiding parties we had to capture.” Porthos scowled. “So, pretty shit information then.”

Aramis nearly growled in response. “If I had more information, don’t you think I would have sent it? I sent what I had. Cordero didn’t trust me with the details, and I was still working to win his confidence. And thank you very much for destroying all of that hard work. If he didn’t fully trust me before, he certainly won’t trust me now.”

“Huh. Can’t imagine why he wouldn’t trust you,” Porthos said dryly. “I’d expect you to be a good enough liar after all the practice you’ve had. But then again, maybe he just has good instincts when it comes to people stabbin’ him in the back.”

“Porthos…” Athos raised a hand to stop him, but it was too late.

“I didn’t have any choice!” Aramis shouted. “Don’t you understand that? The king approached me with this mission, and I…I never had any choice. He made that abundantly clear. He may have released me from Rochefort’s sentence, but that doesn’t mean that the stain of Rochefort’s lies doesn’t still hang on me like a noose. The king may not think I’m guilty, but that doesn’t mean he trusts me. Not with the rumors and suspicions Rochefort stirred up. Even without it, there are still doubts that lead back to…the truth. To what I did.” Aramis’s voice cracked and he swallowed heavily, pushing back the emotions that threatened to spill over if he let the dam break.

“The stain of suspicion will haunt me until the king is completely convinced of my loyalty. And if I had refused him, if I gave him any more cause for doubt…you have to see that it wouldn’t just put my life in danger. Because of my actions…” Aramis trailed off, shaking his head. “I didn’t want any of this. I planned to leave, join a monastery – somewhere where I could repent and where I wouldn’t be a danger to anyone I cared about. Somewhere I could start fresh.” He looked up, meeting each of his friends’ eyes. “But I couldn’t refuse him. I couldn’t risk it. This was the price of earning back the king’s trust, and I had to pay it. Not for me, but to keep _them_ safe, to keep all of you safe from any suspicions about what really happened. If I’d refused, it would have landed me right back in prison. Worse, I would have dragged all of you down with me.”

“It wouldn’t have come to that,” d’Artagnan insisted.

“You can’t know that for sure, d’Artagnan. I know you want to believe it, but none of us can know that for sure.”

“You still could have told us.” Porthos’s voice was a low rumble, a mixture of disappointment and sadness. “We wouldn’t have liked it, but we would have understood. If not when you left, then at least here. The minute you saw us, you should have said something.”

“Don’t you think I wanted to?” Aramis demanded. “God, Porthos! That’s all I wanted to do from the moment I received my orders. Walking away from the three of you, without saying a single word about where I was going…that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But they said – Tréville and the king – they made it quite clear that – I couldn’t. Not under any circumstances.” Aramis could feel the words tumbling out of him in a jumble, tripping over his own thoughts as he tried to explain. Some detached part of his mind noticed the slightly hysterical tone his voice had taken. His breath was coming fast and shallow, and his heart clenched with every word he uttered, but he found he couldn’t stop.

“I couldn’t tell anyone. Those were my orders. And if I broke them...how would that look? It’d be a betrayal of the crown and the king…he wouldn’t pardon me, not for defying his explicit command. Those orders are my life! I can’t break them.” His vision seemed to darken and images of a cold cell in the bastille danced through Aramis’s mind. He could almost feel the rope around his wrists turn to cold steal. “If I disobey, it’s still treason. But now I have and when they find out…”

Porthos stepped forward, stopping the flood of words by hauling Aramis to his feet. Aramis stumbled but Porthos caught him, steadying him with frim hands wrapped around his shoulders.

“All right. All right, I get it,” Porthos said soothingly, staring into his eyes with something almost like warmth, something that made Aramis want to reach out and grab ahold of it and never let go. “Hey, breathe, Aramis. Just breathe.” And Aramis did, suddenly realizing that the tightness in his chest was from lack of oxygen as he’d began to hyperventilate. With effort, he followed Porthos’s instructions, pulling in a sharp, shuddering breath. That was apparently the last straw for Porthos, who pulled him against his chest in a strong embrace, holding him tightly. Aramis melted into his arms, desperately seizing any comfort he could find. His bound hands were pinned between them, but he didn’t even care, leaning into Porthos, who suddenly felt like the only solid object in Aramis’s shaky world.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice raspy and nearly inaudible. He drew a breath to try again, but it caught in his throat like a half-sob.

Porthos squeezed him tighter. “Yeah, I know. You’re sorry. I’ve heard. Just shut up and breathe you idiot.”

This time, Aramis’s breath came out as a weak chuckle.

“God, I missed you,” Porthos whispered.

Aramis could only nod in response. He hoped it was enough, hoped it conveyed the desperate _me too_ that he couldn’t quite voice. Because he _had_ missed them. So much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, some explanation of “the code.” The references to Forges, Calais, and Aramis changing his travel plans to find a jewel thief all allude to the incident with the queen's diamonds in _The Three Musketeers_. Treville gives the Inseparables leave to "take the waters" at Forges so that Athos's pesky shoulder wound can heal. But, of course, they don’t travel to Forges, but to Calais to retrieve the queen's diamonds from Buckingham before the monarchy is plunged into chaos by the revelation of the queen’s affair. But since all that happened around 1625, before the time frame covered by the TV show, I'm assuming it didn't happen in TV-show-universe. I don’t want to believe that the show’s version of Queen Anne would carry on with Buckingham. Plus, the Inseparables got involved with that incident because of d'Artagnan, who wouldn’t have even been in Paris in 1625 during the show. All of that to say...I don't think it happened.
> 
> But it's possible that Richelieu stole the Queen's diamonds himself to discredit Anne, and that Treville found out and sent a musketeer to retrieve those diamonds. And in 1625, Athos would have either been dealing with the immediate aftermath of Milday's "hanging" or wouldn’t have yet had time to gain Treville's full trust. And if Porthos was too new to the regiment, then Treville might have sent Aramis on a secret mission to Calais to retrieve the queen’s diamonds on his own. And if that were the case, Treville might have constructed their little code as something only he and Aramis would understand. Well, that’s how it works out in my head anyway. Maybe it’s just me. Or is that a story idea that I need to write? Hmmmmm…


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been crazy lately. Had it not been, I might have had this uploaded a week ago. But to celebrate that I am only half-buried beneath my backlog of work, I'm taking a moment to update. But if anyone is worried about whether this story might be abandoned, have no fear! I now have a bullet-point list of all the remaining things that need to happen in this story, right up through the epilogue. So everything is fully plotted. Now I just need to finish tackling my work backlog to make time to write.

Eyes closed against the world and leaning into the solid strength that Porthos had always represented for him, Aramis focused on breathing deeply, expanding his lungs slowly until he felt the panic settle down, leaving him drained but steady…at least for the moment.

Still, when Porthos relaxed his grip, leaning back to take a look at him, Aramis wished he didn’t regret it quite so much.

“You a’right?”

Aramis nodded, knowing the moment had passed now, and took one step back. “Yeah. Fine.”

Porthos looked at him skeptically, but released him, dropping his hands from Aramis’s shoulders as he looked him over. Aramis braced himself, determined to keep his legs steady beneath him, even with the loss of support signaled by Porthos’s slight retreat.

“I’m still angry with you, ya know?” Porthos said, though his voice was finally calm, even gentle. “I still think you shoula’ told us. Or you never should’ve lied in the first place.”

“Yes. I know.” And he did. But saying so wasn’t a concession. If he had it to do over again, Aramis wasn’t sure that he would do any differently. But he understood how Porthos felt about the matter, and in all honestly, Aramis couldn’t disagree with him.

“Good.” Porthos nodded, as if that settled things. As if Aramis wasn’t still a traitor and a failed spy. “Just so we’re clear.”

Aramis let out a weak chuckle that threatened to turn hysterical again if he didn’t keep a tight rein on it. He reached up to run his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes, but the motion was clumsy, hindered by his bound hands. He saw the others track the movement, their eyes on the ropes still binding wrists together. He dropped his hands quickly, suddenly self-conscious.

“So,” he cleared his throat, “what now?”

There were long looks and a few deep breaths before Athos broke the silence, striding forward to grasp Aramis’s hands, seizing the rope that held them fast. Aramis had to resist the urge to pull back.

“Well, first, let’s do something about this, shall we?”

Athos raised Aramis’s hands for a closer look, noting the frayed rope where Aramis had stretched and torn at his bindings all night long. His efforts hadn’t been enough to free himself, not yet anyway, but the evidence of his handiwork was clearly on display as Athos examined both the worn and scraggly rope and the bloody marks left on Aramis’s wrists before raising his gaze to look Aramis in the eye, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Aramis,” he said, the tone a familiar mix of mild reproof and exasperation.

He shrugged in reply. “It was worth a try.”

Athos scoffed, raising Aramis’s bound wrists so the others could clearly see the damage he’d done to the bindings. Then Athos drew his dagger. Aramis tensed, but remained perfectly still as Athos slit through the ropes.

“And what exactly did you hope to accomplish by this?” Athos asked, ignoring Aramis’s hiss as he carefully peeled the frayed strands of rope away from Aramis’s torn wrists.

“Escape?” Aramis offered, more a question than an answer. He determinedly ignored Athos’s answering eye roll.

“To where, might I ask? You were surrounded by musketeers and Spanish prisoners. What made you think that escape was your likeliest solution?”

“An’ what made you think that you needed to escape _us_?” Porthos demanded.

Aramis looked away sheepishly, focusing for a moment on the tingling sensation spreading through his freed hands as he flexed his fingers to aid the circulation and ease the stiffness.

“It seemed like a viable option. Escape, cross the border, regroup with the Spanish forces and maintain my cover…As long as you didn’t release the others or ransom them back to Spain, Cordero would be unable to cast doubt on my loyalty, and I could continue my mission…or try to, at any rate.”

“And what? Were you going to dislocate your own thumb in the attempt to free yourself?” Athos asked, still holding Aramis’s bloody wrists.

Aramis shrugged. “If I had to.”

Athos gave him a stern glare before dropping his wrists and walking over to the table to retrieve a flask of water.

“Wait,” d’Artagnan broke in. “You were seriously going to risk your life in an escape attempt, knowing we had a full set of guards on duty, just to fulfill this insane mission?”

“I don’t know.” Aramis blew out a long breath. “Probably? I hadn’t actually gotten free yet, so I didn’t have to make a final decision.”

“You’re an idiot,” Porthos proclaimed.

“Come now, Porthos. Aramis’s foolish and reckless behavior is hardly new.”

“Doesn’t make him any less of an idiot.”

“True.” While Aramis had been distracted by this exchange, Athos had returned with the flask. Aramis’s wandering attention jerked back into sharp focus as Athos poured water over his damaged wrists. The string drew a quick gasp from his lips, the shock of it enough to force him backwards, pulling away with a jerk that reminded him how unsteady his legs felt. Athos raised one hand in apology, but reached out for Aramis’s wrists again, clearly intent on finishing the job.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning away the dirt,” Athos said calmly, with a gesture to the smeared blood and grime covering his hands.

“You can’t,” Aramis protested. “When I rejoin the others, they’ll know you helped me.”

“What makes you think we’re sending you back out there?’ Porthos asked.

Aramis stared, dumbstruck. He’d thought they finally understood. He’d explained…told them why he had to do this… “You have to,” he insisted.

“Aramis,” d’Artagan spoke up, “be reasonable. We can’t send you back into the Spanish ranks. And Athos needs to do something about your wrists.”

Sure enough, Athos was still standing in front of him expectantly, but when he advanced a step, Aramis retreated again, staggering blindly backwards, an awkward misstep causing one of his knees to buckle. He would have fallen if two hands hadn’t caught him about the waist, one landing heavily on his side.

The sharp pressure and resulting stab of pain shooting up his side were a harsh reminder of his wound from the previous battle. Aramis’s hissed breath turned to a moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he winced and tried to pull away. Even without looking, he could feel Porthos’s familiar presence at his side, and then the hands supporting him shifted, the pain easing as he felt Porthos readjust his grip to hold him more gently.

When the pain lessened and he could open his eyes again, Aramis looked down at his side. The brownish stain of dried blood blended in with the dark fabric of his shirt, easy to overlook or to dismiss as mud from when he’d fallen in the battle. But now it was matched by a damp patch clinging to his skin, and a dark red smear on Porthos’s palm.

Still holding Aramis up (and Aramis was certain that, without the help, his legs would no longer support him), Porthos extended his hand to show the others. “Blood,” he said, before wiping his palm on his own thigh and turning back to Aramis.

“You’re injured?” he asked. “Aramis, where is it?”

Aramis shook his head wearily, starting to feel a bit confused. “No, it’s…” what was it though? He realized he had no idea how he’d intended to complete that sentence. His thoughts were muddled and it seemed as though the world around him was off-kilter, causing a bout of nausea as he tried to force his vision to remain focused.

“Aramis. Where are you injured?” Porthos repeated, slowly and firmly as if speaking to a child. Aramis thought he should be offended by that tone…if only he could focus long enough to remember why.

“My side,” he said. “But I stopped the bleeding last night. It should be fine.”

“And now you’ve ripped the wound back open, you idiot.”

Aramis mused that Porthos had called him that a lot recently. He probably deserved it though. So instead of protesting, he allowed himself to be maneuvered into a chair, propped up and ordered to stay still. Someone pushed the flask of water into his hands and urged him to drink, while someone else raised his shirt and began prodding at his side. He thought he should object, but for the moment, the heavenly sensation of water sliding down his throat consumed his full attention.

“How bad is it?” he heard d’Artagnan ask.

“Hmm…not too deep.” That came from Porthos, crouched near him, the source of the prodding fingers. “Just caught the edge of a sword, probably.”

“Indeed. Let’s get some bandages then. D’Artagnan?”

“I’ve got it.”

Aramis heard some shuffling around him, but everything had gone a bit hazy and his eyes had slid shut again, blocking out the world until someone tapped him gently on the cheek.

“No, none of that.” He opened his eyes to see Athos staring at him sternly. “Better. Stay awake and keep talking.”

The stern command coaxed a weak smile from Aramis. “Afraid I’m going to pass out on you?” The words came out rougher than he’d expected, and Aramis coughed to clear the raspy edge from his voice. “I can assure you, it’s not as bad as that. I was just…dizzy for a moment.”

“Yeah, of course, you were,” d’Artagnan replied, returning with the bandages and handing them to Porthos.

“If that is so, then why don’t you explain which of my men landed that hit so that I may commend him for it?”

Aramis couldn’t hold back the grin, weak though it may be, at Athos’s teasing tone. For a moment, sitting here amongst his friends, taking the brunt of Athos’s sarcasm, he almost felt a shred of normalcy returning.

“Give me some more of that water and I just might tell you, though I should warn you, it’s not exactly my most thrilling tale.”

Athos pushed the flask back into his hands, urging him to drink slowly. Aramis did, suppressing another wince as Porthos poked his wound harder than seemed strictly necessary. He tensed in response, but that had the unfortunately effect of reminding him that the pain in his side was not the only ache he must contend with. His back and shoulders had grown stiff, protesting the treatment they had received when Bernard tied him to the tree, and Aramis felt the ache shooting up the abused muscles of his shoulder and into his neck.

“So…your story?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Hmmm?” Aramis stared back for a moment, forcing his eyes to meet d’Artagnan’s as he tried to make sense of the question.

“Your wound? You were going to tell us how you received it?”

“Oh. That.” He looked away. “Took a glancing blow in the fight. Sword swipe. One of your musketeers caught me off guard,” he said, this last addressed to Athos.

“That’s it?” d’Artagnan asked.

Aramis gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I told you it wasn’t much of a story. Ow.” He winced again, leaning away from Porthos and shooting him his best glare, though he feared it looked more pitiful than intimidating at the moment.

“Sorry. Just cleaning the wound a bit before I bandage it.” He gave Aramis a half-grin before returning to his work. Aramis noted the alcohol-soaked cloth he was using to wipe away the mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt clinging to the seeping edges of the wound. He wondered where Porthos had gotten the supplies, why he hadn’t noticed when he’d begun. Then he realized that the others had been talking to him to keep him distracted, rather than out of any sincere interest in his story.

But before Aramis could call them out for it, the tent flap was pushed aside and daylight streamed in, forcing Aramis to close his eyes and turn his head away as the light sliced across his vision.

“Captain?” he heard a voice say.

“Yes, Marcoux? What is it?”

Aramis opened his eyes slightly and saw that the musketeer had entered, letting the flap close behind him. But instead of speaking, he stood staring at the sight before him. Aramis couldn’t fathom what was so interesting until he realized how this must look…with Porthos caring for a Spanish prisoner who sat unrestrained, while the captain of the regiment looked on impassively.

“Has something happened?” Athos pressed.

“Uh, no, sir. Sorry.” Marcoux shook himself and straightened, his gaze darting to Athos and staying there. “Our prisoners are restless, but there’s been no new information. Although, one of them has been asking after Renato.”

Aramis saw the confused looks pass between the other musketeers. “Who’s Renato?” d’Artagnan asked.

Marcoux frowned, looking around the room. “Uh…him” he pointed. “The second officer. That’s what they called him.”

Athos and d’Artagnan turned in near perfect unison to look at Aramis. He glanced to the side and saw Porthos giving him a similar look.

“Renato, is it now?” Athos asked.

“Lying about that too, eh?” Porthos added.

Aramis flushed. “Not…exactly. It’s a Spanish variant of my Christian name. It seemed prudent at the time.”

Athos nodded in acceptance, but Aramis could see d’Artagnan thinking, like gears turning in his mind as he tried to puzzle out what Renato might translate to in French. Normally the scrutiny would have make Aramis uncomfortable, but out of his many secrets, his Christian name no longer seemed like a secret worth hiding.

“What was it you needed, Marcoux?” Athos asked, re-taking control of the conversation. Aramis was grateful to have the attention shift away from him, though he flinched as Porthos applied pressure to his wound.

“Easy. Almost done,” Porthos whispered.

“I came to inquire about your plans for the prisoners this evening. Given their restlessness, and Cordero’s…uh…condition…” Marcoux cast a glance to Aramis, as if wondering if he should say more.

Athos dismissed the concern with a wave of a hand. “He’s still saying nothing, I take it?” Marcoux nodded. “Then leave the lieutenant as he is until sundown. Then return him to the others.”

“Are you certain, captain? What if the lieutenant’s presence strengthens the resolve of his men?”

Athos seemed to consider this before turning to Aramis. “Renato?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm as his lips formed the name.

Aramis scowled slightly. “They’re almost as afraid of Cordero as they are of you. If you let him near the others, he’ll probably spend all his time threatening to skin them alive if they talk.”

Athos nodded. “We can use that to our advantage.”

“Athos, they don’t know anything. They’re young and naïve, and just following orders. Only Cordero has the information you need.”

“Are you sure about that?” Porthos asked, tying off the bandages and checking his work before standing and taking a step back. “If they know anything that might be useful…”

“They don’t,” Aramis insisted.

Porthos gave him a sidelong look, quietly assessing. “Are you tryin’ to protect them?”

“No,” Aramis denied, then stopped, considering. “All right. Perhaps I am. But they’re little more than boys…and I’m sick of Cordero treating them like dogs. Besides, the only one who knows more than I do is Cordero. So no matter what you do, you’re stuck with the same problem.”

“Um, captain?”

Everyone turned to look at Marcoux, who was staring at Aramis with an obvious question written on his face.

“Marcoux, you will tell no one what we have spoken of or what you have seen here. Understood?”

“Yes, captain.” He answered, the questions still written all over his face.

“Do you trust me?” Athos asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Because there’s more going on here than you know.”

“I’d gathered as much, sir.”

“What exactly have you gathered?”

Marcoux fidgeted. “Nothing I will share or speak aloud. Not unless you say so first, captain.”

Aramis couldn’t resist a sly grin. “Trained them well, have you, Athos? I see leadership suits you well, but then, I could have told you as much.” Athos merely glared at the smugness of the compliment, but Aramis ignored it.

“He’s helping us,” Porthos said, pointing at Aramis.

“Porthos,” Athos scolded. Porthos shrugged as if to ask what the harm was in admitting it.

“I’m only helping so long as I’m in here,” Aramis insisted. “Once you send me back out there, I’ll go straight back to insulting you and refusing to cooperate.”

“I would think you’d had enough of resisting by now, all things considered,” Marcoux commented dryly.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Porthos asked roughly.

“It doesn’t matter,” d’Artagnan said, cutting him off before he could press Marcoux for an answer. “There will be no need for resistance since we’re not sending Aramis back. That’s settled, isn’t it?”

“That’s not your decision to make!” Aramis could feel his frustration driving his heart rate up, his head pounding in time with his pulse. “I don’t take orders from you…from any of you.” He cast a quick glance around the group. “I still have a mission to complete, and if you stand in my way, you might as well throw me in prison yourself. Not to mention that without my help, you’ll find yourself with another Spanish raid and another group of dead musketeers, likely within the week.”

“But you said it yourself – you don’t know anything to help us prevent another attack,” D’Artagnan pointed out.

“And if that ain’t enough, just look at yourself!” Porthos waved a hand in Aramis’s direction. Aramis tried to follow the gesture, but the effort of tracking Porthos’s movement made him feel dizzy. “You’re in no fit state to do anything right now.”

Aramis growled. “I didn’t ask for you to…”

“Gentlemen, that’s enough.” Athos’s voice cut through the mounting tension, silencing them all and leaving Aramis with only the sound of his racing heartbeat and the sight of his angry friends. He absently noted that Marcoux was watching the proceedings discreetly with a look of sheepish interest.

Athos straightened and turned to Marcoux first. “Select a courier and prepare him to ride for Paris at first light. I will have a message to be delivered directly to Minister Tréville as soon as possible. Be sure to plan the courier’s route accordingly and arrange for him to obtain fresh horses as necessary.”

“Yes, captain.” Marcoux quickly left to follow his orders.

“D’Artagnan, would you mind fetching something to eat?” Athos asked.

“Of course,” d’Artagnan said.

“Now,” Athos turned around. “Aramis, come here.” The words were clearly an order, but he didn’t wait for Aramis to comply, gently pulling him to his feet and guiding him over to the table. Porthos grabbed the chair and moved it to the table’s edge, allowing Athos to maneuver Aramis into his new position seated at the table. Porthos stood to the side and watched as Athos took the only other chair and sat beside Aramis, pulling his hands so that they rested on the table in front of them. Then Athos soaked a cloth and returned to the task that Aramis had interrupted before, carefully washing the torn and inflamed skin on his wrists.

Aramis had to let out a sigh, almost too tired to care about the sting as Athos worked.

“Have you slept at all?” Athos asked, his tone deceptively casual.

“A little.”

“Truly?” Athos pressed.

“No,” Aramis said, shaking his head. “Not really.”

“Dammit, Aramis,” Porthos muttered. “You gotta stop being so stubborn and let us help you.”

In spite of himself, Aramis felt his heart warm at the mixture of exasperation and clear affection in his friend’s tone. “I thought you were too angry with me for lying to want to help me?”

“I am angry at you,” Porthos said. “But if you think that’s enough to make me stop trying to help you, then being with the Spanish all this time has made you stupid.”

Aramis could only respond with a weak grin at that, sure that if he tried to express his gratitude, his voice would betray him.

D’Artagnan returned with a plate of food, bread and cheese and some dried meat, which he set on the table. Porthos immediately pushed it toward Aramis. “Eat something,” he commanded. Aramis decided it was best to obey, picking up a bit of bread with his right hand while Athos continued to clean the left, before he eventually had to switch hands. He hadn’t even eaten half of the food by the time Athos finished cleaning his wrists, completing his work by tying a thin strip of brown cloth around each of Aramis’s wrists to cover the lacerations and rope burns. Seeing the makeshift bandages, Aramis began to protest, but Athos refused to allow it.

“We’ll cover the bandages with rope when we re-bind your wrists. No one will know the difference.”

Aramis nodded his acceptance. It would, at least, be less painful than leaving the wounds exposed to new abrasions.

“So, we’re doing this then?” Porthos asked, the distaste obvious in his voice. “We’re really tying him back up and keeping him like a prisoner?”

Athos sighed. “For now. He’s right about one thing: we don’t have the authority to decide when Aramis’s mission is over. Only Tréville can do that. So we may have to play this game a bit longer…until our courier reaches Paris and Tréville sends new orders.”

“I don’t like this,” Porthos said.

“Nor do I. But if Aramis insists on continuing his mission,” Athos glanced to the side where Aramis nodded to confirm his intentions, “then we have no cause to prevent him without orders from Tréville.”

“Even if it’s insane?” d’Artagnan asked.

“It’s not, though,” Aramis insisted. “I’ve been doing this for over two years. I _can_ do this. And after all I’ve done…I cannot just give up now.”

“An’ how exactly do you expect to complete your mission as our prisoner?” Porthos asked.

“Well,” Aramis said, “you could let me escape so I could rejoin the army. No one need ever know.”

“But the group you’re with…” d’Artagnan began, “they might not be ransomed back to the Spanish for months yet. If we let you return now, on your own, wouldn’t it look suspicious? That only you escaped?”

Athos nodded. “And you said yourself that Cordero never fully trusted you. If he is suspicious of you already, as you believe, then it may not be safe to continue with your mission, not if there’s even a chance that Cordero shared his distrust with others before your capture.”

Aramis let out a shuddering breath. “But I can’t just go back to Paris. You have no idea what will happen if I return from this mission as a failure.”

“Neither do you,” d’Artagnan said. “You’ve been undercover for how long? Surely you’ve done your duty by now. Perhaps you’re wrong and the king won’t be angry. How long can he really expect you to remain a spy in the Spanish army?”

Aramis shrugged. “Indefinitely?”

“Well, I think indefinitely might just have ended,” Porthos said.

“No,” Aramis said, shaking his head. “Tréville was getting pressure to provide better intelligence from our spy network. I could tell from his orders.”

“It is true that we are in desperate need of reliable information on Spanish troop movements,” Athos confirmed. “The uncertain number of Spanish troops on French soil has caused us a great deal of difficulty in creating effective long-term battle strategies.”

“I got the impression that,” Aramis swallowed, “that the king was dissatisfied. Tréville said significant intelligence was required, and he insisted that finding the Spanish informant was my highest priority.”

“So that’s what we do then,” d’Artagnan said. Aramis turned to look at him, as did the others, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos’s expression shift, looking suddenly intrigued.

“Go on,” he said.

“If we find whoever has been supplying the Spanish with information and helping them to sneak into our territory, then Aramis will have what he needs to satisfy the king.” D’Artagnan turned to look at Aramis. “If you return to Paris with vital information, the king will have to acknowledge that your mission was a success.”

“Even with my cover no longer secure?”

“Well,” Porthos said with a shrug, “he had to know you couldn’t remain in Spain forever. I’d say he should be lucky you’ve managed this long.”

Aramis shook his head wearily, bringing one hand up to rub his temple, hoping to ease the ache of exhaustion. “I don’t see how I can accomplish that, not as things stand now.”

“We,” Porthos said. Aramis lowered his hand to look up at him questioningly. “How _we_ will accomplish it. It’s not just about you anymore. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

“Indeed,” Athos said firmly. Aramis looked from the promise in Athos’s steady gaze to the friendly support of d’Artagnan and the determination in the set of Porthos’s shoulders. He turned back to Athos.

“We will find a way, Aramis,” he said. “I promise you that.”

Aramis could only nod, overcome by the sincerity of that promise “Okay,” he said softly, nodding his acceptance. “Okay.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken me an inexcusably long time to post this chapter. But now that it's here, I hope you all enjoy getting to see things from Porthos's point of view for a change. It was a bit of a stretch for me.

Porthos leaned back from the table, pushing aside his now empty plate as he took a moment to release a deep breath. Daylight was beginning to fade, and Porthos couldn’t help but feel that this day had already dragged on far too long. He’d rarely felt this exhausted unless he’d actually spent the day in battle.

Of course, he supposed, today had been a battle, of sorts, and not the kind he’d wish to repeat. Porthos glanced about him to survey the aftermath of the day’s events.

Athos and d’Artagnan sat across from him, wrapped in their own silent contemplations. The table between them was lit by several candles and covered with maps and half-written notes, scattered between the remnants of their evening meal. Beneath the edge of d’Artagnan’s plate sat a map of the French-Spanish border, sketched out by Aramis’s hand, with an X to mark the camp where Aramis had formerly been stationed. At Athos’s elbow lay a second map, on which Aramis had drawn the route they’d used as Cordero led them into France. Circles of various sizes showed where they had encountered French infantry or conducted raids on French supply routes. Two square boxes marked the locations where they had last rendezvoused with another Spanish raiding party, the dates of those meetings noted in Aramis’s neat handwriting.

Athos had studied this map closely, comparing it to another on which his own notes marked the locations of French troops. They’d discussed every possible point of convergence, compared Aramis’s marks to Athos’s own records of Spanish supply raids and skirmishes between scouting parties. Porthos was fairly certain they’d poured over those maps until none of them could see straight anymore. Aramis certainly had been going cross-eyes by the end there.

The maps lay temporarily discarded, as d’Artagnan finished the last of his meal and Athos sat writing diligently, wholly engrossed in the words he was committing to paper.

Porthos spared a quick glance at Athos’s discarded dinner plate, relieved to see that he had eaten most of his meal. That wasn’t always the case, he knew. It had come as a surprise the first time he’d noticed, but Athos tended to neglect his own needs when he was absorbed in the duties of leadership. It was something that they’d all had to learn these last few years, and as Athos adjusted to being captain, Porthos and d’Artagnan had adjusted as well, learning to support him without undermining his command. It had taken a while, but they’d found a new rhythm, even in the midst of war.

Of course, Porthos mused, it would have been easier with Aramis present. He’d always been the one to look after the others, seeing to their health in small, subtle ways that only became obvious when he was no longer around to do so. Sometimes, in the beginning especially, every time Porthos had to pull Athos aside for a meal or bring him something to eat long after the others had fallen asleep, it had been a cold reminder that Aramis wasn’t here to look after them anymore.

The thought of Aramis made Porthos turn aside, his gaze falling on the figure who lay curled up on a blanket in the corner of the tent, fast asleep. Aramis had eaten when prompted, then submitted himself to every question Athos could think to ask, drawing diagrams, and wracking his brain for any information that could possibly be of value, either to tracking Spanish troops or to unmasking the informant who was leaking French secrets. If Aramis had appeared exhausted before, he’d been half-dead on his feet by the end of it. They’d told him to rest, and he’d collapsed gratefully in the corner as they ate their own meal and reviewed what they’d learned.

Looking at him now, Porthos felt his heart clench.

He hated this. Hated that his best friend had lied to him. Again. It felt like a physical blow, a new betrayal as Aramis pushed him away once again in favor of his own secrets. He hated that Aramis had held them all at a distance, that after keeping his secrets about the queen, secrets that had almost ended them all, Aramis had turned around and done _this_ … risking his life again to protect a secret of such monumental stupidity that one wrong word could easily see Aramis dead and left to rot in some far off corner of Spain. He hated that Aramis had taken that risk, that if things had gone wrong, Aramis could have died and Porthos would have never known why.

He hated that Aramis looked so battered, wrung out and weary. This wasn’t Aramis, this shell that had shown up in their camp, sounding by turns bitter and defeated. He hated looking at him and seeing anything other than his cheerful, charming, hopelessly reckless best friend, a man so full of life who had been replaced by…this.

And above all, Porthos hated the thought of tying him back up and pretending to be his enemy.

“He’ll be all right,” Athos said, drawing Porthos’s attention back to the group. Athos had stopped writing and regarded Porthos steadily. “His wound truly isn’t too severe. By some miracle, it has not begun to fester. And I suspect it is exhaustion and dehydration that ail him more than actual blood loss.”

“Yeah, probably. But that’s not what worries me.” Athos gave him a raised eyebrow that made Porthos nod in surrender. “A’ right, that’s not _all_ that worries me then.”

“Are you still angry at him?” d’Artagnan asked.

Porthos sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not _as_ angry at ‘im at least.” It was true. He’d been furious. All the pent up anger over Aramis’s affair with the queen that he’d never truly had a chance to express, all his hurt and betrayal not just at Aramis’s leaving, but his refusal to respond to Porthos’s letter, the way he’d cut himself off so completely, as if rejecting their friendship once and for all…

Well, at least now Porthos knew why.

“I just can’t believe he’d do this again,” he said slowly. “He lied about…well, about _her_ for months. An’ I know why he did it, but it doesn’t make it any less stupid. So now to find out he’s been lying about something this big… And that he wouldn’t even tell us when we captured him…it’s like he intentionally pushed us away again.” Porthos sighed again. “I just wish he’d start trusting us instead of trying to handle these problems on his own.”

“I doubt it’s a matter of trust,” Athos said. “Not in this case at least, and certainly not when it came to the queen.”

Porthos leveled Athos with a firm stare, but the captain returned it easily. By silent agreement, none of them ever mentioned the queen in connection with Aramis, not by name nor by title. If possible, they never even alluded to what had happened between her and Aramis. And no one was more insistent on that silence than Athos. That he would speak of it so openly now, even in private, spoke of how strongly Athos must feel about this.

“He truly was trying to protect everyone by keeping silent,” Athos continued. “Aramis may allow his heart to rule him at the most inopportune times, but he’s kept his secrets out of prudence, not mistrust. You know he would do anything to protect those closest to him. And that includes the queen, but also the three of us.”

Porthos nodded. “Yeah. I know. It just…” He trailed off, shaking his head helplessly.

“Knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less?” d’Artagnan offered.

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.” Porthos took a quick drink of wine, setting the glass down with a clunk. “And anyway, what about you?”

“Me?” Athos looked at him in surprise.

“Yeah. Aren’t you angry with him? Either of you?”

Athos merely shook his head before looking at d’Artagnan, who sighed.

“Well, I wish he’d said something,” d’Artagnan began. “But I guess that can’t be undone. And he did shoot me. But Athos was right; if he’d seriously wanted to harm me, he would have. I’ll be fine.” He took a minute to fiddle with the cup in front of him, fingers running around it absently as he took a moment to think. Porthos knew that look on d’Artagnan, and he waited. “Some of the things he said…” d’Artagnan began haltingly, “out there,” he waved a hand to gesture towards the camp outside. “I’ve never heard Aramis like that before. So bitter, almost cruel.” He looked back up then, meeting their eyes. “I’m not sure how I feel about that. But right now I’m more worried about what we’ll do next.”

“Fair enough. So Athos…Why aren’t you angry at him?” Porthos asked.

Athos offered a half-hearted shrug, but then his eyes grew distant, staring off into space as though looking into the past. “I suppose,” he spoke slowly, softly, “I merely understand him. At least in this one instance,” he added with a wry grin. “After all, who knows better than I the lengths to which one can be compelled by duty…even against the natural inclinations of one’s heart.”

Looking at Athos, Porthos felt the last vestiges of his anger bleed away. It was clear now where Athos’s mind had gone – to Milady and the day he had ordered her to be hung, following the dictates of his duty even at the cost of his own heart. And Porthos wondered how Athos had lived with it every day since, had fought against her all those times when part of him still loved her. It wasn’t the same, he knew. Athos knew it too. But it didn’t change the similarity – didn’t change the fact that both Athos and Aramis were forced to deny their love of a woman to satisfy some version of duty and honor. And for Aramis, he’d walked away from everything, motivated solely by duty, regardless of what he’d truly wanted. When he’d told them he was going to the monastery in Douai, he’s said it was what he wanted. _With all my heart_ , he’d said. What a lie that had now been revealed to be. Leaving the queen and his son, abandoning his friends, walking away from his life as a musketeer, even forsaking his desire to serve God and renew his faith…Porthos now thought that Aramis must have acted against every inclination in his heart.

Athos’s voice jerked his attention back to the present.

“You know Aramis would never have willingly lied about this. He must have truly believed he had no other options. While Aramis can be reckless and stubborn, even he would never wish to keep something like this from us.”

“Yeah.” Porthos nodded. “I know.” He glanced back to Aramis. Even in sleep, he looked haggard, his eyes shadowed by dark smudges and his clenched jaw betraying the tension that hadn’t left him, even when he’d finally allowed himself to rest.

God, this whole situation was just a mess.

“You finished with that letter to Tréville?” Porthos asked. Athos seemed unperturbed by the sudden shift in subject matter.

“Nearly so. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve got a couple of words for him.”

“Such as?” Athos’s voice dropped, low and mild, but still cautious.

“You just tell him that if he ever again dares to pull somethin’ like this behind our backs, then he’d better watch his own. I’m tired of secrets, and he should know better than to keep them… especially this kind of secret. An’ he’s not my commander anymore, so he better not be expecting I’ll overlook this out of some sense of duty, ‘cause I won’t.”

Athos shook his head, an expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “I shall be sure to convey your displeasure to him.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Perhaps slightly more diplomatically?”

Athos did not suppress a weary grin. “Perhaps.” He returned to his writing then, adding a few more lines to the letter, though Porthos could not make out what he wrote. Probably, as d’Artagnan suggested, he was more diplomatic than Porthos himself would have been. Still, there would be time to make his feelings clear. When next they returned to Paris, perhaps…

“It’s nearly dark,” d’Artagnan said.

Athos nodded. “Yes.” He signed the letter with his typical elegance, pulling the nearby candle aside to melt the wax and seal the missive. “I’ll call Marcoux. He should have arranged the courier by now. And he’ll need to return Aramis before the prisoners become suspicious.”

Porthos frowned but gave a reluctant nod of assent.

He still hated this. But it had to be done.

As Athos left to find Marcoux, d’Artagnan rose and went over to kneel by Aramis’s side, one hand grasping him by the shoulder.

“Aramis,” he said, giving him a gentle shake. Aramis’s eyes flew open and he pulled back abruptly, glancing about as he sought to orient himself. “Hey,” d’Artagnan raised his hands in surrender, “it’s just us.”

“Where…” Aramis’s voice cracked. Porthos was at his side in two quick steps, offering a cup with the remnants of his own wine. Aramis took it with gratitude, drinking slowly.

“Athos went to retrieve Marcoux,” d’Artagnan said slowly. Aramis looked confused for a moment before his gaze cleared and he nodded.

“Good,” he managed, voice slightly steadier. He began to push himself upright, but Porthos stopped him with a hand.

“Not yet. Let me check that bandage.”

Aramis shook his head. “Porthos, it’s fine. And besides, it can’t appear as though you’ve given me any special treatment. It’s bad enough…”

“Don’t,” Porthos snapped. “You’re not winning this one. The bandage is beneath your clothing. No one will see. An’ besides, have you seen the state of you? You look bad enough as it is.”

Aramis looked down at himself, noting his dirty and ragged clothing. The dried blood stains were still there, as were the bruises scattered about his body. And Aramis couldn’t even see the state of his face, with bruises along his check and temple, his eyes sunken and his complexion pale. Even a bit of uninterrupted sleep couldn’t disguise his fatigue.

Without waiting for Aramis to offer any further complaint, Porthos quickly set about checking the wound and adjusting the bandages. The edges of the wound were a jagged red, with dried blood along the seam in Aramis’s torn flesh. But there was no fresh blood, and the wound had not begun to fester. It was the best they could hope for in these circumstances. Porthos had just finished re-fastening the bandages and covering them with Aramis’s shirt when Athos and Marcoux returned.

Athos held up a length of rope. Aramis sighed and raised his hands in resignation. Athos set to work securing them, wrapping the rope around his wrists several times until it covered the rough cloth that Athos had previously used to bandage the rope burns. The extra loops and knots made it appear as though they had taken extra care to ensure that Aramis could not escape. But Porthos could see that Athos had actually done the opposite, taking care that the bindings were not tight enough to disrupt the circulation or cause any undue discomfort. When Athos finished, he tugged lightly on the rope. “How is that?”

Aramis twisted his hands, gently testing his range of motion. “Good. Thank you.”

“Just don’t hurt yourself or try to escape this time,” Athos warned.

Aramis gave him a small grin, a hint of mischievousness playing about his lips. “No? But if I could…”

“Aramis,” Athos scolded.

He nodded reluctantly. “As you say, captain.” There was nothing ironic about the way Aramis used the title. When Athos used that tone, he was every inch the captain, just as Tréville had once been. Still, it sounded strange to hear Aramis address him as such…Aramis who hadn’t been here for the learning curve, to see Athos gradually settle into the role they all knew he could fill so well.

“Good.” Athos then turned to Marcoux, gesturing him forward. “Now, you were saying?”

“Yes, of course.” He turned to Aramis, still seated on his makeshift bed. “As I told the captain, the prisoners have seemed restless this evening. Cordero, in particular, has been on edge since he learned that we’d taken you for questioning.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s already warned me several times to keep my mouth shut. He probably worries that I will give something away.”

“Which you have,” d’Artagnan pointed out. Aramis sent him a glare, but it melted almost immediately, as if the sight of d’Artagnan, hesitant but still looking at Aramis with open friendship, was more than Aramis could resist.

“Fair enough. But best I don’t let Cordero know that.”

“If you’re to convince him, you’ll have to make it seem that we’ve treated you poorly. Cordero’s not in the best of shape himself. He’ll suspect if you don’t seem equally…well,” Marcoux hesitated, “if you don’t seem to have suffered similar mistreatment.”

Aramis let out a harsh, humorous laugh. “This afternoon your little friend roughed me up and tied me to a tree. I’ve spent nearly two days bound and stiff and bruised, and I still feel the effects from when I was bashed on the head during our capture. So I’m fairly certain I can muster an outstanding performance as an abused prisoner, such a performance that would make the best actors in Paris swoon with envy.”

Porthos frowned, making a mental note to ask for the full story of that bit about being ‘tied to a tree.’ But it was the slight tinge of bitterness to Aramis’s words, and the way his heart clenched in response, that made Porthos wish to call the whole thing off and damn the consequences. “Aramis…”

“No,” Aramis snapped. “I’ve already said. We’re doing this. And I told you, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Porthos growled. “You don’t sound fine either.”

Aramis looked Porthos in the eye, and whatever he saw there took all the fire out of him. “Porthos…” he sighed. “I will go out there and exaggerate every minor ache and pain until they think you’ve worked me over for two hours straight. And I will still be _fine_.” He waited, but Porthos could think of no response. “Trust me, my friend. Please.”

With the gentle, pleading note in Aramis’s tone, Porthos couldn’t possible deny him. “All right.” He took a deep breath, then turned to Marcoux. “But I’m coming with you.”

Marcoux nodded. “Good. It will look more convincing if we take him back together. Having you there might shake Cordero’s confidence, as well. The more nervous we can make them, the more likely someone will make a mistake.”

“Just promise me you’ll leave the others alone,” Aramis said. “They don’t know anything of value.”

“We will attempt to do as you say,” Athos said. “But Aramis, the security of France is always our first priority. Whatever chance we have to find the intelligence leak, we must take it.”

Aramis nodded. “I understand.”

“We’ll give you the morning to see what else you can learn while we compare the information from our latest scouting parties to what we have here.” Athos gestured to the maps still strewn across the table. “Perhaps we can learn something even if you cannot. We’ll plan to separate you and Cordero at midday.” Aramis nodded and Athos reached out a hand, hauling him to his feet and keeping one hand on his arm to steady him. When Aramis nodded a second time, Athos gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before he stepped back, leaving Aramis on his own two feet. He seemed steady enough, and Porthos moved forward to take him by the arm.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.” Marcoux moved to Aramis’s other side as they escorted him outside the tent. But once outside, Porthos paused. “Can you give us a minute?” he asked. The other musketeer nodded, moving off to stand against a nearby tree to wait. Porthos held onto Aramis tightly and took him around the corner of Athos’s tent, out of sight of the rest of the camp. When he leaned close to speak, Porthos kept his voice low and calm.

“There’s one thing I need to know.”

“Anything,” Aramis promised.

“I wrote to you. When you left, I mean,” Porthos paused, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. “I wrote you and my letter was returned, unread. It was sent back to me with a note from the abbé at Douai. He said you refused to receive my letter…said there was no place in your new life for the friends you’d left behind an’ that you’d renounced everythin’ from your old life when you accepted your calling.”

The anger Porthos had felt every time he thought of that letter threatened to return…until he took one look at his friend standing before him. The pain on Aramis’s face was almost a physical thing, his eyes closing as he looked away in shame, a small whine escaping his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never…” his words trailed away as he sucked in a rough breath to steady his voice.

“You said you’ve been here the whole time,” Porthos pressed, “that you left Paris and went straight for the Spanish army.” Aramis nodded. “So how’d you send the letter?”

His eyes shot open as Aramis looked up sharply. “I didn’t. I would never…” he broke off, swallowed. “I would never say those things. Never.”

And Porthos felt a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying suddenly slip away. “A’right. I believe you, but then…”

“Where did you send it from?”

“Sorry?”

“The letter. Where were you when you sent it? Did you send it directly from Paris to Douai?”

Porthos shook his head. “No. We’d already left Paris by then. We were stationed a few days west, gathering troops.”

“So you sent it back to Paris through regular courier and then on to Douai?” Aramis asked. When Porthos nodded, Aramis grimaced. “Tréville sent it.”

“He what?”

“If you sent the letter through a standard courier, it would have gone to Paris first, with the other dispatches. Tréville could intercept it there. He may not have written the reply himself, but he could have arranged for it to be written, by a local priest, perhaps, to add credibility to the story.” Porthos could see Aramis’s brain spinning as he put the pieces together, grumbling as he continued. “We discussed it before I left, the possibility that you wouldn’t let it go so easily. I insisted my story about going to Douai would satisfy you all, but…” Aramis shrugged. “He worried that I would tip you off somehow, that you would become suspicious. It was too dangerous to let you get involved. Not,” Aramis hastened to add, “that either of us believed you would divulge my mission, but we couldn’t be sure who else might become suspicious. Nor was it worth the risk of displeasing the king when he had sworn me to secrecy.” He sighed. “I should have known Tréville wouldn’t leave it alone. He must have been prepared to do whatever was necessary to make you drop the matter.”

“Course he was,” Porthos muttered, looking away as his mind turned over this new development. He thought he might have to add to those choice words he’d asked Athos to pass along to Tréville.

The feel of Aramis leaning closer brought his attention back to the man in front of him.

“Porthos, you have to know…you have to _believe_ that if I ever did leave the musketeers willingly – to retire or to settle down or to join the church or _anything_ – I wouldn’t cut you out of my life. I couldn’t. I would write you so often you’d grow sick at the sight of my handwriting, and if you didn’t reply I’d hunt you down and…”

Porthos laughed, in spite of himself. “Yeah. Yeah, a’right, I get the point.” He smiled softly. “And thank you. That was all I needed, right there.” Porthos took a moment to drink in the reassurance, breathing deeply. But he knew they couldn’t delay much longer. “I guess we should…” he waved towards Marcoux and the rest of the camp.

“Mmm, yes. I guess we should.” But it was clear that Aramis couldn’t muster the tiniest bit of enthusiasm for what lay ahead.

“Hey?” Porthos stopped him. “You heard Athos. We’ll take care of this.”

Aramis nodded. “I hope so.” He blew out a long sad breath. “All right. Let’s go.” He visibly gathered as much energy as he could, then strode forward determinedly. Porthos hastened to catch up and take him by the arm, trying to project an air that he was leading Aramis and not the other way around.

Marcoux nodded to them both as they reached him before leading them across the camp towards the prisoners.

With each step they took, Porthos could feel Aramis slip deeper into his role. Aramis hung his head, shuffling his feet, the slump in his shoulders meant to convey exhaustion or defeat. Porthos did his best to make it appear that he was dragging Aramis, giving a slight tug now and then for dramatic effect. He thought of Tréville and the king and everything they’d demanded of Aramis, everything they had kept secret, and he used his anger to fuel a scowl that would be convincing to any onlookers.

He tried not to feel the stares of the other musketeers as they watched Porthos manhandle the prisoner across the length of the camp.

Just a bit longer, Porthos told himself. A few days at most. This wouldn’t be forever. Eventually, somehow, things would go back to the way they were supposed to be.

They had to.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, uh...this is a thing. I know some of you must have thought I'd given up on this story. I hadn't, I assure you. I've never given up on it. I've just been sidelined by...well, lame real life stuff that you all aren't interested in. So look, here's a chapter (which I hope you will be interested in!).  
> I don't feel like this chapter moves the action along as much as I would have liked, but it sets up the stuff that will unravel in the next two chapters. Which I'm working on. I promise!

Aramis allowed himself to be led through the camp, surrounded by silence as shadows deepened and daylight died away. He felt the stares of the musketeers, and he hunched his shoulders, curling in on himself just a bit more. The occasional stumble in his steps was intentional, all part of the act. But the weary sag of his shoulders and the way he relied on the support of Porthos’s firm grip was not. He’d slept just enough to revive his senses, to help him remain alert and clear-headed. The tinge of over-tired hysteria that had dogged his every movement had receded. But in its wake, he was left with only weary resignation.

He felt the hand on his arm tighten slightly, and he resisted the urge to lean into the contact. And, God, Aramis couldn’t even describe the sense of relief in feeling Porthos at his side, silently supportive, though he did his best not to show it. It mustn’t look as though he was too fond of his captor—even if he was.

Time for a bit of drama, then…

Aramis made a show of fighting, pulling away and tugging harshly against Porthos’s grip. Porthos responded in kind, jerking Aramis back and squeezing his shoulder with enough force to make him wince. Aramis flashed a quick glance at Porthos, who was scowling, and Aramis resisted the urge to wink at him. The tiniest hint of a grin tugged at his lips before Aramis ducked his head and looked away, as though intimidated by his captor’s fierce countenance.

He had to admit, the role of cowed prisoner was a bit more fun when he wasn’t the only one in on the act.

Porthos gave Aramis a rough shove forward. Aramis stumbled—fake stumbled…well, mostly fake—allowing Porthos to grasp his arm and drag him along. “Come on, then, keep moving,” Porthos ordered. “We don’t have all day.” He propelled Aramis forward, then brought them to a halt as they stood before the group of Spanish prisoners. Porthos seized Aramis by the arms and grabbed his bound hands, tugging at the rope to test the surety of the knots.

Aramis let out a hiss as though in pain, and cast a quick glance at the prisoners scattered before him. Most kept their heads down, casting only furtive glances his way before they resumed their submissive positions, heads bowed as if hoping to avoid the attention of their captors. But there were two exceptions: Cordero and Matías stared right at him, one with poorly concealed anger and the other with naked concern.

A hand landed between his shoulder blades and shoved, sending Aramis sprawling forward so that his knees hit the ground with a jarring impact, his bound hands slamming into the rough ground as he attempted to catch himself. The jolt of impact was enough to make his back ache and his head pound again. Aramis twisted to look behind him, scowling in mock defiance. He saw Porthos and Marcoux both glaring at him, though he thought he saw a slight wince from Porthos. He’d obviously shoved Aramis with more force than he’d intended. Even when putting on a show, Porthos hated to think he’d caused Aramis pain.

But at moments like this, with Cordero’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, Aramis cursed the gentle side of Porthos’s nature. It was probably minor enough to go unnoticed, but if Cordero was astute enough or suspicious enough, he might happen upon the truth if Aramis couldn’t convince him—

A rough blow to the back of the head sent Aramis reeling. Momentarily disoriented, he moaned, breathing harshly as he found himself bent over and leaning on his hands to keep himself from collapsing onto the ground.

“There’s more where that came from, Spanish dog,” the words hit like a slap, and only as Aramis’s vision cleared did he realize Marcoux was speaking to him in Spanish. “Just think about that, ‘cause we’re not done with you yet.” He let out a dark chuckle. “We’ve still got so many plans for you, and I can guarantee they won’t be pleasant.”

Aramis stared up at him, eyes wide in shock that was completely genuine. He’d have to compliment Marcoux later on his acting skills…and his quick thinking.

Marcoux leaned forward, fist clenched, and Aramis flinched, pulling back as if prepared for a blow that never came. A shiver ran down his spine and Aramis went with it, allowing himself to tremble just slightly. Marcoux spit at the ground in front of him and then spun on his heel to leave, Porthos following with a self-satisfied nod.

Aramis let out a shaky breath.

Well, that went…rather well actually. He shifted his weight and then groaned. Okay, so if he ignored his now sore knees and the renewed pounding in his head, then it had gone well. Still, a small price to pay all things considered.

Rough hands seized him by the collar and swung him around with enough force to make him dizzy. Startled, Aramis stared up to find Cordero on him, his bound hands gripping the fabric of Aramis’s shirt and his eyes flashing in anger. He found himself pressed backwards, one leg twisted beneath him, pinned in place and with only the lieutenant’s grasp to keep Aramis upright.

“What did you tell them,” he hissed, so close that Aramis could feel the heat of his breath.

Aramis leaned back, trying to pull out of Cordero’s grasp, but the hands tightened and Cordero, crouching over him, dug his knee into Aramis’s hip, effectively halting his struggles as Aramis gasped.

“What,” he repeated, “did you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

Cordero gave him a rough shake. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” Aramis snapped. He shook himself free, shoving at Cordero’s shoulder. The lieutenant leaned back, releasing his grip at the show of defiance. Aramis fidgeted, looking away from the intensity of Cordero’s gaze, shuffling backward and projecting as much nervousness as he could muster.

“If you didn’t say anything, then why’d they take you?”

“They know I’m an officer. That’s it. I had to tell them or…” Aramis trailed off, his gaze shifting to Ramón who was watching intently. Cordero followed his gaze and Ramón looked away in shame. “Would you rather it had been one of them?” Aramis asked softly.

“I’d rather,” Cordero gave him a shove, rocking Aramis back on his heels, “you tell me everything. And I’d better like what I hear.” His voice dropped to a threatening growl.

Aramis wanted to deck him. But he didn’t think now was the right time to escape from his ropes. It was far too early to tip his hand.

“I didn’t tell those Frenchmen a single thing. But it doesn’t matter. They already know everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They know, Cordero. They’ve known all along. They knew where we were camped, how to ambush us—they’ve been toying with us all along, making us think we were attacking supply lines when it was all just a decoy to lure us here, into this trap.”

“No.” Cordero shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Aramis said firmly, maintaining eye contact with the Spaniard. “They said…” he swallowed roughly before continuing. “They said they’ve been tracking us, just waiting for their chance to take us down. We’ve been at their mercy the whole time.” He let a note of fear creep into his voice and Cordero pounced on it.

“You fool,” Cordero spat. “They’re trying to mess with your head. And you’re stupid enough to let them. They don’t know anything.”

“No, you’re wrong. They must know. How else would they have found us so easily? Don’t you get it, _lieutenant_?” Aramis ground out the title with a low note of contempt. “Someone must have betrayed our position. It’s the only thing that makes sense. We’ve been walking into a trap all along.”

“Stop being so paranoid,” Cordero snapped. But his eyes narrowed and Aramis thought he saw a hint of concern there. “You just worry about keeping your mouth shut, and let me handle the rest.”

Aramis scoffed. “Yes, because you’ve done such a fine job so far.”

Cordero swung his bound hands, striking Aramis across the face. It took Aramis a moment to recover, but when he did, he turned to face Cordero with a furious scowl, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“That’s a warning,” Cordero said. “Keep your insolent tongue in check, both to me and to the French.”

With that, the lieutenant slunk off, putting as much space between them as he possibly could. Aramis looked around him. The other prisoners had all seen the confrontation, watching warily. None seemed to want to get involved. Their guards had seen it too, watching with smug satisfaction. They’d kept their prisoners confined to a corner of the camp, but seemed willing to let them fight amongst themselves, giving them enough space that Cordero and Aramis could take up positions on opposite ends of the group. They were still well within the confines of the perimeter set up by their guards, but the rift between them was clearly growing. The musketeers made no move to interfere with that rift. Aramis caught a brief glimpse of one familiar guard, Bernard, the one he’d foolishly provoked earlier in the day. Bernard looked at Aramis now, then to Cordero, before he suddenly turned and strode off in the opposite direction. Aramis shrugged. Whatever that meant, there was little he could do about it.

“Renato?” Aramis turned to the soft voice, seeing Matías suddenly at his side. “Are you all right?”

He nodded wearily. “Yeah, fine.” He spit out some blood and wiped the last of it from his mouth before closing his eyes, grimacing in pain that was half-real, half-exaggerated.

“I’m sorry,” Ramón said. “It was my fault they took you. I should never…”

Aramis shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. They would have found out eventually.” He shifted, let himself slump a bit as if exhausted by the weight of the day. And truthfully, it had been a very long day.

“Are you hurt?” Matías asked.

Aramis shook his head again. “Leave it, Matías. It doesn’t matter.” His answer made the young man frown. “Is there…” Aramis paused, licking his dry lips. “Did they bring you any food this evening?”

Matías and Ramón exchanged quick glances.

“They did,” Garza’s voice broke in. Aramis looked up in surprise to see him sitting nearby. He’d expected him to ally himself with Cordero if he were honest, but here he was, sitting a few feet away, but clearly closer to Aramis than Cordero and his closest followers. Interesting, he thought. “They brought some supper, or what passes for it, a while ago, before you were returned.” He looked around. “I’m sure it’s all gone by now.”

The others looked chagrined, but Aramis merely nodded. “It’s fine,” he said again. “At least they don’t mean for us to starve.”

Matías turned and scrambled back to retrieve something, then returned with a water skin. “I have this. There’s not much left, but I saved it…” he trailed off, holding it up to Aramis. He almost refused, hesitant to take the last of their water when he didn’t truly need it. But stoicism wouldn’t help his cause any, not if he wanted to appear more battered than he truly was. And it would be nice to wash away the tang of blood from his split lip.

“Thank you.” He accepted it gratefully, taking a sip. He was tempted to rinse his mouth and spit it out, but the water was too precious to waste. He swallowed, then took a longer drink before handing back the now empty water skin.

“Renato…” Matías began again. Aramis waved him off.

“Not now. There’s nothing to be done for it now.” He settled down on the ground, curling up on his side and closing his eyes. “Just get some sleep Matías. All of you. There’s nothing else we can do for now.”

With his eyes closed, Aramis couldn’t see their reactions, but after a few moments he heard the rustling of movement as the others settled in for the night. Only much later—when the air had cooled around him and he heard nothing but the sounds of soft, steady breathing—did Aramis open his eyes. He saw the forms of his sleeping comrades. And there, sitting some six or seven meters off, as far away as he could get without drawing the guard’s ire, was Cordero, hunched in on himself, stress and tension etched in every line of his body. No one was around to see it, the guards paying them no mind. But to Aramis it was clear as day.

Cordero was worried. And that was the first sign he’d seen in days that made Aramis think he might actually have a chance to pull this off.

 

* * *

 

As they’d left Aramis behind, marching back to re-join Athos and the others, Porthos couldn’t help but worry. At his side, Marcoux seemed impassive.

“So,” Porthos said, breaking the silence and trying to keep the frustration from his voice. “That back there…was that really necessary?”

Marcoux looked up at him. “What?”

“You know what.” Porthos ground out the words. “I know we have to make it look good, but he’s not actually the enemy, ya know.”

“I know, but…” Marcoux sighed. “Cordero knows something’s up. I can see it.”

The words took a moment to sink in. “Damn. You think his cover’s already blown?”

Marcoux shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but…” he shook his head. “I think your friend is running out of time.”

“You seem awfully certain he’s my friend.”

Marcoux shrugged. “Well, you clearly care about him, and he’s clearly not a Spanish soldier.”

Porthos huffed. “No, he is a Spanish soldier, all right. For now anyway. But that’s not all he is.” He paused, but it had to be said. “Look, Marcoux…”

“I understand,” Marcoux cut him off. “It’s like I told the captain: I won’t say anything. I know when there’s more going on than meets the eye and I know when to stay out of it.”

Porthos nodded. “Good. But I was just gonna say…thanks. For not making a big deal out of this. And for being the one to hit him back there. You’re right; it probably was necessary. Didn’t mean I wanted to do it, though.”

“I know.”

They’d nearly made it back to Athos’s tent when another musketeer caught up to them.

“Marcoux, I…” he trailed off. “Uh, I apologize, sir,” he said, glancing to Porthos. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

Porthos waved him on, and Marcoux reached out to place a hand on his shoulder.

“What is it, Bernard?”

“When you both left, the prisoners…well, they had a bit of an altercation.”

Porthos stiffened. “What kind of altercation?”

“The lieutenant and the other officer…they argued.” He looked at Marcoux. “The lieutenant didn’t seem very happy. Kept warning the other officer to keep quiet and stop being paranoid. Seems they think someone might have betrayed their position.”

Marcoux nodded. “That’s good, Bernard. That’s what we want. If they start to turn on each other, we can use that. Don’t get involved, just keep an eye on them, make sure no one tries to make an escape, and make sure they know they are constantly being watched. Make them nervous, but don’t do anything to interfere unless it looks like they’re preparing to do each other serious harm.”

Bernard nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And Bernard,” Marcoux added. The younger musketeer looked up at him. “Don’t make it personal. Keep your emotions out of it and focus on your duty. All right?”

Bernard nodded again. “Yes, sir. And…I’m sorry. About before. You were right and I behaved inappropriately. I’ll do better.”

Marcoux gave him a tight smile. “Good.”

He turned about and Porthos watched him go before turning back to Marcoux.

“What’s that about?” Porthos asked.

Marcoux sighed. “I don’t think you really want to know.”

“Well, now you have to tell me.”

“He got a bit, um, emotional earlier today. With your little friend back there.” He raised a hand before Porthos could protest. “Don’t even say it. I know. But it probably helped sell his cover anyway. And Bernard…” He trailed off and sighed. “Lucien was his best friend.” Marcoux quickly saw the blank look of confusion on Porthos’s face and hastened to clarify. “Lucien was with that party that was attacked two weeks ago – the ones that were killed before they reached the rendezvous point.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned quickly as Porthos recalled the incident. It wasn’t something one was likely to forget.

They’d gone looking for a group of missing musketeers and found only bloody corpses. They’d been slaughtered and left to rot. Ambush, most likely. When they’d stumbled upon the scene, they’d been greeted by buzzing flies and mud stained dark with blood. It was yet another grisly reminder that war was a brutal, despicable business. And he knew that many of the younger musketeers had been deeply shaken. Few had ever seen this level of death and destruction before.

“I’ve been working with Bernard since,” Marcoux explained, “trying to get him to move past it. He’s got to learn to think with his head and not his heart. He’s always letting his emotions influence him in battle when he can least afford to do so. You know the type, hot-blooded and quick tempered.”

Porthos nodded. “Yeah. I know the type.” He gave Marcoux a grin that was somewhere between ironic and sheepish. “I may have worked with a few musketeers that fit that description.”

Marcoux grinned. “I thought you might have.”

Porthos thought of how hard Athos had worked to teach d’Artagnan that very lesson. _Head over heart_ , he’d said, over and over again in practice sessions. Porthos thought of all the times Aramis had pulled some reckless stunt in the heat of the moment, acting on impulse, a spark of passion overriding his cooler judgement. And then he thought of himself, his quick temper and the way he’d let it fly against Aramis earlier that very day.

He couldn’t resist a low chuckle.

Yeah, he knew that type all right. All too well.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, a thing! Sorry that this story is slow-going, but it _is_ coming along. And the million dollar question for this chapter: how long will it be before Aramis and Cordero come to blows?

Aramis woke the next morning feeling stiff and sore. His split lip stung and his head ached—people really needed to stop hitting him on the head—but his mind was clear for the first time in days. He’d fallen asleep praying, as he often did, for absolution and forgiveness of his many sins, but also pleading to God to make a way to end this. It was the first time since he’d left Paris that he saw a glimmer of hope at the end of this mission, a slim chance that he might come away from it all without either dying on some desolate battlefield or being marched home to face a traitor’s execution.

He’d drifted off with those prayers running through his mind, and he woke with his fingers grasping the beads of his rosary. He lay there silently, surveying his surroundings. No one was stirring yet, his fellow prisoners silent and sullen. Cordero looked as though he hadn’t moved all night, still sat by himself, hunched over and glaring out at the rest of the camp as though daring anyone to cross him.

Aramis decided that was a dare he didn’t want to accept. He kept his distance, moving stiffly as he pulled himself into a sitting position and began to watch the camp awaken around him.

The morning was cool and crisp, and Aramis took a moment to savor it. His companions eventually began to stir, some simply lying on the ground as if there was no point in rising with the morning sun. He could understand the sentiment. It wasn’t like they had much hope that the new day would bring anything but more questions and rough treatment.

The musketeers circled them, not approaching, but watching. Aramis avoided looking at their vigilant guards but he caught a glimpse of Bernard among them. The young musketeer kept his distance this time, but then Aramis knew Marcoux had warned him off after the incident yesterday.

“How are you feeling?”

The voice was enough to surprise Aramis, causing him to start and turn. He saw Matías hovering at his shoulder, and Aramis suppressed a sheepish grin. He must have been more distracted than he thought to allow his young comrade to startle him so uncharacteristically.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Aramis’s gaze raked over him, visually checking his injuries, but there was no fresh blood and his wounds were bandaged, as Marcoux had promised the day before.

Matías shrugged. “I’m not the one they dragged away yesterday.” He brushed his shoulder lightly against Aramis’s, a brief show of support.

Aramis sighed. “Don’t worry about me, Matías. Just keep your head down, all right? Don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

Matías looked as though he might argue, but after a moment, he merely nodded. Aramis vowed to keep an eye on him. The last thing he needed was a loyal young Spaniard putting himself in harm’s way on his behalf. Aramis wasn’t equipped to handle any more undeserved loyalty directed his way.

The prisoners passed another morning in silence. They were fed a light breakfast, probably just the scraps left over from the musketeers’ morning meal, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Aramis ate slowly and noticed Matías eyeing him approvingly, even offering him a portion of his own meal, which Aramis refused. A quick glance at Cordero saw him choking down a piece of bread with a slightly nauseated expression. Aramis wondered if he’d been fed at all yesterday. Athos and Marcoux had been working him hard.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour or two later that Marcoux came to take the lieutenant away. Aramis ducked his head as if nervous, but he cast a cautious glance upward to watch as Cordero stumbled and was led away.

More time passed. Aramis let his eyes close and his mind drift. He had no way of knowing how long it had been when a voice brought him back to full awareness.

“Renato?”

“Hmmm?” he opened his eyes. It was Garza looking at him nervously.

“Do you really think someone gave away our position?”

Aramis pretended to consider it for a moment before answering. “Yes. I do. It’s the only thing that makes sense. These musketeers weren’t surprised to find us. They were waiting. Somehow, they knew where we’d be.”

Matías frowned. “But no one knew our route…not even us!”

“Just the lieutenant,” he said softly, pausing a moment. “And his superiors. But their plans could have leaked somehow, or been intercepted. Or maybe….maybe someone left behind a clue that the Frenchmen found?” Aramis hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know. There must have been something.”

He let the words hang there, ominously. It took a few moments for the young Spaniards surrounding him to pick up on the implication.

Garza caught it first. Aramis knew he would. He was smart, educated, from good family, and Aramis suspected that Garza was already being groomed for an officer’s commission, a role he would likely excel at one day—if he lived long enough, of course. There were no guarantees in war.

He watched as Garza’s eyes widened in shock. “You think it was one of us!” he snarled.

“Shsh,” Aramis hushed him. “’Quiet. And I didn’t say that.”

“But you think it.”

Aramis frowned, looking uncomfortable as he fidgeted slightly. “I didn’t say that,” he repeated. “But maybe it was an accident?”

“No,” Garza swore. “I won’t believe it.”

“I don’t want to believe it either,” Aramis said. “But you didn’t hear those musketeers. They knew everything—every attack from the past three weeks, our mission, our location… They must’ve been tracking us somehow.”

“But it couldn’t have been…none of us would…” Matías stuttered. He glanced over his shoulder at where Cordero had been, his place now occupied by Francis, Vicente, and Beltrán huddled together. They sat leaning against one another, weary and dispirited, ignoring the hushed conversation of their comrades. A few feet from Matías sat Ramón, hunched over and looking miserable. He was listening, looking attentively at Aramis but not venturing a word. Matías shook his head in determination.

“No. Even if…No, it’s not possible. We’ve been together the whole time, all of us. Even if someone wanted to…no one would have had the opportunity.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Garza said softly, lowering his voice.

Aramis’s gaze flicked up to his face, studying him closely. “What do you mean?”

Garza glared back, somehow looking both hostile and hesitant at once. “The lieutenant and I split off that once, a few weeks ago. Who knows what the rest of you got up to while we were gone?”

“What? When was this?” Aramis demanded.

“You were on guard duty,” Garza said. “Remember when we made camp in that rocky canyon. You were stationed up on the ridge keeping watch all afternoon. The lieutenant said he wanted to scout out towards the east and ordered me to accompany him. We were gone for two hours, maybe a little longer. You were still on watch when we got back. But all of the others…”

“We stayed in camp,” Matías said. “No one left.”

“So you say,” Garza grumbled.

“It’s the truth.”

“Are you certain?” Garza pressed, leaning forward. “You kept track of everyone, every minute, during the whole time we were gone?”

Matías frowned, jaw tight. He looked away, unable to meet Garza’s gaze.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Garza said. “So anyone could have slipped away and let loose some hint of our plans. _Accidentally_ or not.” The bitter emphasis on the word accidentally was enough to convey his thoughts on the matter.

“Garza,” Aramis said softly. The young Spaniard looked up at him, and Aramis saw what lay behind that bitterness—fear. “That might not be what happened. We can’t know for sure.”

“But you said…”

“I know, but it’s just speculation. And I don’t know, maybe…” Aramis sighed. “The musketeers seemed to know everything. But perhaps they merely misled me, hoping I would give something away. I can’t be sure, and I have no proof of any misconduct among our comrades. But I do know that we mustn’t turn on each other. Not without more evidence to support these suspicions.”

Garza chewed on his bottom lip, looking younger than he had any right to. Aramis felt the urge to reassure him, an irrational impulse, all things considered. “For now, let’s just…”

Whatever Aramis had hoped to say died on his lips when he heard a sharp command in French. His head whipped around to see Marcoux standing there with a furious glare.

“You,” he said, pointing at Aramis and switching to Spanish. “What are you talking about?”

Aramis said nothing, sinking back as if to make himself appear smaller.

“I told you we weren’t done with you.” Marcoux stepped forward to grab Aramis by the arm. He heard Matías whisper his name urgently, but there was time for nothing else as Marcoux manhandled him to his feet, pulled him away from the prisoners, and marched him across the camp.

“You have them fooled?” Marcoux asked in a whisper, once they were far enough away from all of the others.

“It seems so. And you have them scared.”

“Good,” Marcoux said. “That was our goal. I hear you and Cordero had a bit of a scuffle.”

Aramis had to suppress a growl of frustration.

“Yes, and if you’d be so kind as to avoid hitting me on the head again, it would be much appreciated. Between the both of you, I’ve been knocked about quite enough.”

Marcoux chuckled softly. “All right. Fair enough.”

He led Aramis back to the captain’s tent, and ushered him inside, untying Aramis’s hands once they were out of sight of the rest of the camp. But once inside it was clear that said captain was nowhere to be found.

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis said. He was sitting casually inside—alone, Aramis noted.

“Aramis.” D’Artagnan stood and rose to greet him. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, surprisingly,” he said mildly. His eyes flicked to d’Artagnan’s arm, still bandaged. “And, uh…your arm, is it…?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “It’s fine. As I keep saying. Please don’t add to the fussing. I get enough of that from Porthos these days.”

Aramis felt an embarrassed grin tug at his lips. “Well, in this case I can’t help it. It was my shot after all.”

There was an awkward silence as they stood facing each other. Aramis was only vaguely aware of Marcoux standing behind him as he struggled to decide where to look, eyes flitting away from d’Artagnan as he was unable to keep his friend’s gaze.

Marcoux, bless him, broke the silence with an irritated huff. “You two planning to stand there all day?”

Aramis chuckled lightly, obediently stepping forward at the same moment d’Artagnan did, bringing them directly in front of one another. It would have been impossible to tell who moved first, it was almost as if they’d reached an unspoken agreement as they embraced lightly, smiling. For that blessed moment, it was almost as if the years hadn’t passed and they were still the best of friends.

When they pulled apart, d’Artagnan was grinning. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

Aramis felt a slight flush and resisted the urge to look away. “Even under these circumstances?”

“Yes. Even so.”

Aramis shook his head in wonder at the ease of d’Artagnan’s forgiveness, the generous manner in which he offered friendship as though it cost him nothing. Yesterday, his attention had been riveted on the others, first with Athos as the captain methodically stripped away Aramis’s defenses until all of his secrets were laid bare before them, and then with Porthos as his righteous anger swept through Aramis’s excuses like a storm. Through it all, he’d barely been able to spare a thought for d’Artagnan, the young man they’d all tutored as a recruit and guided through his training as a young musketeer. To see him now, standing before Aramis, his enthusiasm tempered with experience and the weary look of a man who’d weathered the trials of war…

“I have missed you, my friend.” Aramis reached out to grasp his shoulder. “I’ve missed all of you. Every day.”

“Likewise.” And Aramis saw that beneath the weariness, there was still the boyish grin, the warmth and the vigor that had always characterized d’Artagnan in his mind. “It’s been strange without you. The others won’t say it, not even now, but it was never quite right when you were gone and now…it’s good to have you back.”

Aramis struggled with a sheepish grin, suddenly feeling embarrassed and ashamed in the face of d’Artagnan’s earnestness. He cleared his throat, doing his best to deflect attention away from his own discomfort.

“And where are the others? Porthos and our intrepid captain?”

“Right here,” Athos’s voice cut in as the tent flap opened. He entered, Porthos following closely.

“Been busy?” Aramis asked lightly, surprised at the teasing note that slipped so naturally into his voice.

It was quickly squashed by the sarcastic look from Athos. “Some of us have a war to run and a spy to catch.”

“Um…yes, of course.” Aramis lifted one free hand to rub the back of his neck nervously. “Did you learn anything useful from your scouts?” Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head. “Nothing of note. They found no trace of any other Spanish soldiers, nor a trace of any courier who might be carrying Cordero’s orders.” Porthos settled in at the table and Athos cast him a glance.

“And I’ve ‘ad no luck with your reluctant lieutenant.”

“He’s rattled,” Aramis said. Porthos nodded his agreement.

“Yeah. Rattled, but quiet. Hasn’t said a word all day.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve had better luck than we have?” Athos said, regarding Aramis seriously.

Aramis grimaced. “Not exactly.” He saw Athos scowl and hurried to cut him off. “But give me a bit more time. The other prisoners…they’re scared, and I think I can turn them against each other. If one of them knows something, I can get it. I just need more time.”

“I’m not the one with the power to grant you that time, Aramis. We need to head off the next raid, and my courier will reach Tréville by nightfall, tomorrow morning at the latest. That is the deadline you should worry about.”

Aramis nodded, already thinking of how he would accomplish this minor miracle. If he pressed Cordero, and the others were willing to back him instead of the lieutenant…

“Hey.” He looked up to see Porthos standing in front of him, his eyes serious. “No need to figure it out this instant, eh? Come over here and sit down for a bit.”

Aramis shook his head. “No, I should—”

“You should do as the man says,” Marcoux piped up. “After all, you won’t be going anywhere for a while. I’m sure your interrogation will take most of the afternoon.”

“Interrogation?” Aramis asked. Marcoux smiled at him in response. “Oh, yes. I suppose you’re right.”

“We can’t send you back out there too early,” d’Aratagnan added. “Wouldn’t want to look suspicious.”

“So we might as well have a drink,” Athos added. Aramis spun around to see the captain settled at the table and pouring glasses of wine with an ironic half grin playing about his lips.

Aramis chuckled. “Yes, that seems perfectly reasonable.”

 

* * *

 

They spent the afternoon that way. Porthos checked Aramis’s wound. Athos reported on the intelligence he’d gathered so far, and they debated the merits of various plans. Marcoux wandered off at some point, and between Athos and Aramis, they drew up two possible search patterns that they hoped would lead to discovering the nearest squad of Spanish soldiers. Athos would hold back for another day or two, in the hopes they could learn something more concrete, before he sent out more search parties.

It was almost like old times, if you could ignore the way they all tried so hard to pretend that it was just like old times. The undercurrent of tension was always there, the sense that all four of them were holding their breath, waiting for something else to happen and break the illusion of comfortable normalcy.

By the time the afternoon had begun to fade, Aramis had been fed and rested. It was enough to fortify him to sally forth once again into the strange battle that awaited.

When the time came, Marcoux rebound Aramis’s hands and returned him to the prisoners, shoving him roughly to the ground beside Matías. Aramis had to look away to hide his discomfort as Matías worried and fussed over him. It was awkward. How was he to act when the men he betrayed treated him as a friend, and the men he helped, his oldest friends, still looked at him warily, as if holding him at a distance?

Some time passed before Cordero was returned and the prisoners were given food for the evening. They ate in near silence, Cordero and Aramis occasionally sneaking glances at each other across the camp. This awkward truce only lasted until dusk, when it became clear that Cordero had had enough. Quietly, he made his way across the prisoners’ little corner of the camp, and Aramis tensed.

Well, now or never…

Hovering at Aramis’s side, Cordero spoke in a low voice. “This has gone on long enough, don’t you think?”

“Our imprisonment, you mean? Yes, I’d say so. If you have any bright ideas for our escape, I’d be more than happy to hear them.” Aramis didn’t raise his voice, but his flippant sarcasm carried just far enough to attract some attention from the others.

The noise Cordero made in response could only be described as a growl. “Shut up with your insolence for a moment. Tell me what you learned.”

“Learned? Nothing. How could I?”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Cordero demanded.

“Nothing,” Aramis replied, then turned on the offensive. “But I could easily ask you the same question. We both know there’s more going on here. Perhaps it’s time you start being honest with me.”

“No.” Cordero shook his head. “Why would I be honest with a snake like you?”

Aramis bristled. “What did you just call me?”

“You heard me.” He jabbed Aramis in the chest. “I don’t trust you, Renato. Never have. Our superiors think you’re valuable, but all I see is an opportunist.”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“You lived among the French for years, must’ve been friendly enough with them, given how much you seem to know of the language, the land, hell, you even know enough to recognize the captain of the musketeers on sight. But after all those years of rubbing shoulders with Frenchmen, you left to join the Spanish army at the first hint that it might earn you status and glory. And it worked, didn’t? An officer’s commission for a new recruit is no small prize. Well, who’s to say you haven’t changed your mind? That you aren’t willing to sell us out now if you think they can give you a better offer?”

“That’s what you think?” Aramis growled. “I left because they hated me, because they treated our countrymen with scorn and disdain. But even if you were right, even if I had been sympathetic to their cause, I wasn’t the one who knew our route and the ambush sites. You kept that information all to yourself. So if anyone was able to give away our position, it was you, not I. We were betrayed, _lieutenant_ , but not by me. I had neither the opportunity nor the information required. But you did.” Aramis let his voice drop to an accusatory growl. “Stay away from me, Cordero.”

Aramis pulled away and turned his back on Cordero, settling down on the ground as if to sleep and clearly putting an end to their discussion. He could sense the stunned silence of the other prisoners around him, and eventually heard the rustle of Cordero shuffling away, roughly ordering everyone to go to sleep and keep their mouths shut.

They all did.

Aramis wondered if he had Cordero just where he wanted him or if he’d just tipped his hand too far.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, after it grew dark and the stars had come out, Aramis found himself lying on the ground and thinking. He could hear his comrades breathing quietly around him, but it wasn’t the deep breath of sleep. Apparently they were as troubled as he was.

“Garza?” he asked hesitantly.

“Hmmm?” The man was only a few feet away, wide awake and sounding defeated. A few others shifted, listening to their quiet conversation. Aramis sat up and looked towards Garza where he lay, not making eye contact.

“You said that Cordero took you to help scout the terrain to the east.”

“Yes.”

“He never said anything about it. Not to me anyway.” Aramis let the words hang in the air. “He should have. He broke protocol and he left the rest of us with no warning and no orders to guide us if he had not returned. Why would he do that?”

Garza say up to face him, letting out a deep, unsteady breath. “He must have had a good reason.”

“Where did you go?”

“Renato, I…” Garza sighed. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this. If the lieutenant didn’t tell you, I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Aramis looked him firmly in the eye, dropping his voice so it was low and harsh. “Reasons that may have led to our capture? Reasons that may have put us _here_?”

Garza sighed, looking uncomfortable. “We…” he broke off, wetting his lips and swallowing harshly. “We passed through a narrow wood until we came upon a clearing. There we found a modest hunting lodge. It seemed empty. Perhaps the owners abandoned it to escape the war, but I can’t be sure. The lieutenant left me to stand guard and went inside. I don’t know why. He wasn’t there long before he emerged and we left. It all seemed…pointless, to be honest.”

“That makes no sense.”

Garza nodded. “I thought so too, at the time. But you know the lieutenant. He isn’t one to share more than necessary.”

Aramis raised one eyebrow. “And perhaps there’s a reason for that?”

“You can’t be serious?” Garza demanded. “You have no proof.”

“No. No, I don’t. But where was this hunting lodge? Near a road of some kind?”

“No. It was remote. Hidden.”

“And an hour’s walk from where we were camped?”

“Yes. Or a bit more maybe. The lieutenant was in a hurry. We doubled back a few times, though. Like he was worried about being followed.”

“I’m sure he was,” Aramis muttered.

“Renato, what are you saying?” Garza pressed. For a long moment, Aramis didn’t respond.

Finally, he answered. “I’m not saying anything. But I think we all know what happened here.”

He said nothing else, letting his suspicions prey on everyone’s minds as the night grew darker, and thinking to himself that obviously no one knew what was going on here. But that confusion might just be the opportunity he needed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so...I'm sure it seems like I've abandoned this story, but I haven't. I was a bit disappointed in myself for not finishing it by the end of August (which would have been just over a year since I started writing the story). Then September hit, and fall is the busiest season for me when it comes to work. But the good news is that the word count for this story is over 50k in my Word document, and I have a good start on the next chapter...which sees the appearance of a different character...and more of Aramis getting hit in the head (I'm not sure if that counts as good news for everyone or not). So I'm not sure how many people are still interesting in seeing the end of this story, but...there _is_ more to come. I'm just going to keep plugging away at it.
> 
> And a sincere thank you to everyone who has sent me messages or bugged me about this story (even if I failed to reply). Your interest continues to astound me.

By morning, Aramis decided he’d had enough. He hadn’t slept. Neither had his comrades if their expressions were any indication, dark circles under everyone’s eyes and complexions pale from lack of rest and adequate food.

He could feel the collective stress wearing on them, and it stirred something inside him, something restless and impulsive that he should suppress, even though he sorely wanted to embrace it. It was an impulse he was deeply familiar with, and listening to it usually resulted in some trouble or another. Still, trouble usually came with its own benefits.

Aramis supposed it came down to this: he was beginning to tire of playing prisoner.

After the confrontation with Cordero the night before, it was perhaps too soon to press for more, but he felt as though he was running out of time. They had only a few days at most until Athos’s courier would return with new orders from Tréville—orders that would determine Aramis’s fate. He needed to have some information by then, and right now, he had only suspicions—strong suspicions, yes, but some confirmation would not go amiss. And the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that the hunting lodge was the key.

Aramis couldn’t even wait until they’d been fed the morning meal before he succumbed to the desire for action. He pushed himself up onto his knees, then pulled his feet under him. Crouching down so as not to draw anyone’s attention, he made his way to Cordero’s side.

Cordero heard him approaching.

“I don’t want to hear it, Renato.” Cordero laid on his side facing away, not even raising his head to look at Aramis. His voice was rough from lack of sleep.

“I just want to know why,” Aramis said.

With a groan, Cordero pushed himself up, pulling his legs underneath him to face Aramis head on. “Why what? Why I put up with your insolence?” Cordero snorted. “Simple, I was ordered to bring you along and haven’t found a way to rid myself of you yet.”

Aramis laughed bitterly. “By which you mean you’re threatened by me and afraid I’ll usurp your position.” The glare Cordero shot him was confirmation enough. “No, I want to know why you would betray our position to the French.”

A quick glance ensured that their low voices had still managed to attract the attention that Aramis desired.

Cordero growled. “What?”

“You’re the only one who knew precisely where we would be. The only one who could have given away our exact position. And the musketeers knew we would be here. You’re the only one who could have given them that information and I want to know why.” Aramis spoke low, voice tinged with growing anger until the last word came out as a harsh demand.

“Keep your voice down, you fool.” Cordero glanced about nervously. The others were watching, straining to hear as much of the furiously whispered conversation as they could manage.

“Why should I? You’re hiding things. You took Garza and left the camp, but you never told me about it. You really expect me to believe you’re innocent after you’ve so clearly been lying and keeping secrets?”

“I don’t answer to you.”

That was true enough, but Aramis ignored it and pushed on. “There was no need to scout the terrain in that area, so what was it, then? A secret meeting? To pass information off to the French?”

Cordero swore. “You imbecile. If you were half the soldier you think you are, you would know better than to question a superior officer about matters that don’t concern you.”

“But they do concern me,” Aramis said. “They brought me to this hell hole, didn’t they? Because you’ve been supplying information to the French.”

Cordero grabbed him and swung him about, as fast as a snake, nearly snarling in Aramis’s face. “You listen to me, you bastard. I don’t need to defend myself to a coward like you. But you’re so far off the mark that I have to wonder if your brain has been replaced by horse shit. I’m not supplying the French with information. They’re the ones who have been passing intelligence to me.”

Aramis felt his eyes go wide in surprise that was mostly genuine. This was what he’d suspected, what Tréville had known was happening all along. But to hear Cordero admit it was still a little shocking.

“That’s a pretty claim,” Aramis said. “Too bad you have no proof.”

Cordero scoffed. “Just like you prove that you’re not a double-crossing opportunist who’s willing to prostrate himself to whoever offers to pay him the most.”

The flash of rage robed Aramis of all conscious thought as he lunged at Cordero, ready to take a shot at his face before he felt hands haul him backwards, away from the lieutenant. Another set of hands had seized Cordero, dragging him away.

“Can’t leave you Spanish bastards alone for five minutes, can we?” Marcoux’s voice echoed from behind him, his hands pulling Aramis backwards, restraining him tightly.

“Yeah, well, that’s why we’re fighting them, isn’t it?” Porthos said. As the fury began to simmer down, Aramis saw that Porthos was holding Cordero as the lieutenant glared back at him. “Guess we should separate these two before they rip one another apart. I’m sure we can find better ways to occupy their time.”

Marcoux laughed. “Good plan. You good with the lieutenant there, or would you like to switch? This one seems like quite the spitfire.”

“Nah, I’m good. You take care of him.”

“With pleasure, sir,” Marcoux replied.

Both dragged their respective captives off to opposite ends of the camp. Aramis shot a look back at the other prisoners and saw six sets of shocked eyes staring after them.

Well, if he’d wanted to shake things up, he’d clearly accomplished his goal.

“What was that about?” Marcoux whispered in his ear.

Aramis growled, but made no reply. Marcoux didn’t slow his pace, pushing Aramis along until they reached the captain’s tent once again and Marcoux shoved him inside.

“Marcoux, it is still too early for this,” Athos muttered, his back turned to them. “We can discuss the prisoners again once I’ve eaten.”

“Sir…” Marcoux began, but before he got any further, Aramis wrenched himself free of Marcoux’s grasp and marched over to the table, slamming his fists down on the map with enough force that he made the discarded dishes clatter on the table. Athos turned to face him, eyes wide.

“Two weeks ago, we camped here.” Aramis indicated a location on the map, pointed as best he could with still bound hands.

“Yes?” Athos regarded him coolly, his initial surprise bleeding away as he saw the coiled tension and determination in Aramis’s movements.

“And Cordero left camp for a few hours, but not before he made sure I wouldn’t know about it. He took one of the others and headed east, about an hour on foot, until they stopped at what seemed to be an abandoned hunting lodge.” Aramis jabbed the map again. “That has to be where he met his French informant. Find that hunting lodge, and you might just find your traitor.”

Athos’s eyes widened. “I’m impressed. Are you certain about this?”

“As certain as I can be unless you release me and let me go hunt this informant myself.”

“I thought you wanted to maintain your cover.”

“What I want…” Aramis broke off, growling in frustration. “What I want is to finish this. And this is the best chance we have to do that.”

Athos nodded. “All right. I’ll arrange to send a party to investigate. But Aramis…” Aramis looked up at him, breathing deeply to try to calm himself. “You know they might not find anything. Even if Cordero did meet someone there, they could be long gone by now.”

Aramis sighed. “I know. I just…I need this to end.”

“And it will,” Athos assured him. “Marcoux, go get Porthos and d’Artagnan. They’ll want to go themselves. Find four others to accompany them. They’ll leave as soon as they’ve eaten and prepared their horses.”

“Yes, captain.” Marcoux slipped out of the tent.

 

* * *

 

Porthos, d’Artagnan, and the rest of their party left camp within the hour, armed with Aramis’s information and orders to investigate the area thoroughly for any clues. Aramis could only hope they’d find something valuable. He was acutely aware that his life relied on whatever they might discover.

Athos kept Aramis with him for a few hours while Marcoux kept watch over Cordero. They didn’t question the lieutenant, merely kept him tied and separated from the others, leaving him to assume that Aramis was receiving similar treatment elsewhere within the camp.

Early in the afternoon, they were both returned to their Spanish comrades with a warning that causing further trouble would result in harsher punishments for the entire group.

Among the prisoners, no one spoke.

Aramis wasn’t sure how much they had heard of his accusations that morning, but it was clear that no one, not even Matías, knew who to trust anymore. With Cordero and Aramis at each other’s throats, the others were at a loss. Mostly they kept to themselves, remaining silent and only glancing about nervously.

The general aura of despondency that settled over the camp was almost enough to make Aramis feel guilty, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t quite ignore the abject misery on his companions’ faces.

No one had told him it would be this hard to disappoint everyone, both musketeers and Spanish soldiers alike. And there was nothing he could do to keep his mind off his situation.

It was, perhaps, the worst part of this whole endeavor—the waiting. Aramis wasn’t good at waiting. Never had been, as Athos would easily attest. Aramis preferred action. He preferred to help those who were suffering, to confront his enemies where he found them, and to fight for what he believed in. But none of that was possible here. He’d hurt his friends by leaving, and there was little he could do to make amends—could only wait and hope their friendship would eventually regain its prior strength. Now he found himself, somewhat unwittingly, tormenting the Spanish soldiers, twisting the knife as he turned them against each other and played on their fears. He couldn’t help them either. Nor could he find the traitor who’d been supplying them information. Nor could he end this god-forsaken war.

He could only wait—wait for Porthos and d’Artagnan to return, wait for Athos to obtain the necessary intelligence, wait for the seeds of suspicion he had planted to come to fruition. Aramis could play these head games, could spin lies and weave deception with the best of them. It was why Tréville had allowed the king to send him here.

So yes, Aramis could wait. But he wouldn’t enjoy it.

He leaned back in the dirt, listening to the soft breathing and rustle of clothing from the men around him, the shifting of the musketeers at work throughout the camp, the birds whistling in the trees.

He whistled back absently, and he waited.

 

* * *

 

“What’s going on?” Matías asked, his voice breaking through the fog of Aramis’s impatience. He’d allowed his eyes to drift shut as he attempted to block out the world. Now, his eyes snapped open and he looked over at Matías, whose gaze was centered on the musketeers in camp. A horse neighed in the distance, hooves stamping.

“I don’t know,” Garza answered. “Some riders returning, perhaps?”

“What does that mean?”

Garza looked across the camp with a frown. “It could just be normal dispatch riders or suppliers.”

Ramón grumbled. “Yes, since they captured us before we could stop their next supply carriers from arriving.”

“Or it could be a scouting party?” Matías asked.

Garza shrugged. “Maybe. But if so, then what are they looking for?”

Aramis grimaced and glanced across the prisoners’ little camp to see Cordero also studying their captors intently.

Garza was right. Something had happened to stir the musketeers. Guards whispered and exchanged positions. Several officers strode through the camp dispensing new orders. The guards who remained on duty kept glancing away, as if straining to catch a bit of camp gossip or any news from the newly returned riders—Porthos and d’Artagnan, Aramis assumed. It had to be them. They must be the source of this hum of activity, and Aramis was itching to know more, barely resisting the urge to sit up straighter and strain to see past the guards to the rest of the camp. It took a monumental effort of will to maintain the appearance of casual, weary disinterest.

“It doesn’t matter what it is,” Aramis told the others. “There’s nothing we can do about it regardless.”

“But what if they receive reinforcements or capture another group of our troops?” Matías glanced around worriedly, gaze flickering between his comrades.

“Then we’d be just as screwed as we are now,” Garza said. “Renato’s right. There’s nothing we can do.”

The sullen silence that followed offered no relief, either for their collective anxiety or for Aramis’s impatience. He wanted to curse Porthos, Athos, d’Artagnan, and even Marcoux and the other guards for failing to inform him of what had occurred. Had Porthos and his men found Cordero’s meeting place? Was the hunting lodge abandoned, as Garza had suspected, or… Damn it, couldn’t they tell him something?

But no, of course they could tell him nothing. He wasn’t Aramis the musketeer, a seasoned soldier and the best sharp-shooter in the regiment. He was Renato, the Spanish prisoner. The spy. And no one was coming to give him a report on recent events. The days when a young musketeer would snap to attention at a single word from Aramis were three years past, and those days might never return.

He’d just have to sit here, alone with his thoughts, and wait.

 

* * *

 

“You did not bring me new prisoners, I take it?” Athos asked dryly, not even turning to face his friends as Porthos and d’Artagnan entered the tent where Athos sat, reviewing reports.

“No prisoners, no,” Porthos replied. “But I think Aramis was right. There’s something going on there.”

Athos finally looked up to examine them, both dusty from a long day, but seeming somehow lighter. The activity had done them both good. Sitting in camp waiting for new orders or further intelligence did not suit either man—particularly given Porthos’s recent sense of restless frustration.

“So you found the location Aramis described?”

“Sure did. Just where he said.”

“It looked abandoned at first,” d’Artagnan added. “No one was inside the building. We checked the surrounding areas just to be sure. But there were maps laid out on a table in the main room, and supplies tucked in the cellar.”

“What kind of supplies?”

“Rations, powder, musket balls… not enough to be suspicious really. It could just be provisions for a hunting excursion…or it could serve to help resupply a small band of soldiers.”

“And we also found this.” Porthos held up a single coin. The light caught it, glinting off the edge.

“Spanish?”

“Looks that way.” Porthos laid it on the table for Athos to examine. “Stashed under the edge of a cabinet, which was empty by the way.”

“It could have fallen and been kicked under the furniture by accident,” d’Artagnan suggested. “Maybe someone was in a hurry to leave.”

“You said there were maps. You brought them back with you?” Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head. “Nope.”

Athos merely looked at him, eyebrow raised. “And why not?”

“Because we have a better plan.” The cocky grin Porthos displayed would have irritated Athos on any other face, but Athos had to admit that Porthos’s plans were usually worth listening to…and worth any cockiness he might display. Porthos’s confidence was well-placed, most especially when that confidence lay in his own intuition.

“We want to go back there tomorrow,” Porthos said.

“To what purpose?”

“If it is a meeting place,” Porthos leaned forward, expression intent and voice firm, “then it’s likely that someone is watching it. It’s not like the Spanish would be able to predict when they are able to make contact with their informants. So meetings are either scheduled in advance, which seems risky, or made whenever possible…which means someone would have to keep tabs on the place and check in regularly.”

“We think,” d’Artagnan continued, “that someone must come daily, or weekly at least, probably at a specific time to check for drop-offs or new orders.”

Athos looked from one to the other. “So you want to survey the area and wait for this unknown individual to return?”

“Precisely,” Porthos said with a grin.

“Well,” Athos sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Then I suppose we’d better get started on this plan of yours. I presume you’ll want to leave by first light?”

“Before that actually.” D’Artagnan glanced to Porthos, who nodded in confirmation. “We’d like to be there by dawn. It’s possible that the informant arrives early in the morning to avoid detection.”

“Or late,” Porthos added. “They might wait until sundown, arrive under cover of nightfall. Either way, we’ll need to arrive early to catch them, and we may have to stay until the following morning.”

“And if no one appears?” Athos asked.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged glances. “Someone will,” Porthos said. “Eventually, someone will show up. You didn’t see this place, Athos. It’s exactly what I’d use as a meeting place. Convenient cover, easy to explain away as a rarely-used hunting lodge stocked with supplies, out of the way enough to be discreet but not so hidden that it looks suspicious. It’s perfect. Too perfect to be coincidence, especially with the amount of Spanish activity we’ve had in this region over the past six months.”

Athos took a moment to consider, looking between them. D’Artagnan looked away under Athos’s scrutiny, but Porthos held his gaze, steady and certain. Finally, Athos nodded.

“Very well. Then we have little time to prepare.” He shoved aside the maps laid out before him. “Sit and make your case. I want every detail of this location and your plan before I approve anything.”

Porthos grinned, taking up a chair. Athos couldn’t fool him, of course. They both knew the decision had already been made. All that was left was to work out the particulars.

 

* * *

 

Aramis learned nothing that night. Nor the next morning. The camp had been active, but the prisoners were staunchly ignored. It grated on his nerves, tempting him to do something dramatic just to gain some attention. Athos would not approve, of course, but then he rarely did.

Cordero and Aramis hadn’t even been taken away for questioning today. Oh, Marcoux had been by after breakfast, Bernard trailing along dutifully at his side. They’d asked the group some questions, delivered a few swift blows on occasion, but it had all seemed perfunctory at best. No one really had their heart in it.

Which left Aramis bored, anxious, and restless, faced with an entire day of monotony. He feared he might just go insane.

The musketeers and their Spanish prisoners continued their uneasy stalemate, and the Spaniards maintained a tenuously tense silence, as though collectively holding their breath and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Morale was at an all-time low.

The tension left Aramis feeling exhausted. He avoided Cordero, who glowered at him from a safe distance. He checked Matías’s wound, which had begun to heal. His own wound was still tender, pulling at his side with any sudden or quick movements, but it hadn’t reopened since Porthos last bandaged it. Aramis was thankful for small mercies.

“Why don’t they do anything?” Ramón once asked.

“Maybe they’ve given up on us,” Matías suggested.

“Doubtful,” Garza said. “More likely they’re just bored with us, waiting for their superiors to come and take us off their hands.”

“You think so?” Matías looked at Aramis questioningly.

Aramis merely shrugged. “It’s possible. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. You lot will probably be transferred to a prison camp and then ransomed back in a prisoner exchange.”

“What do you mean ‘you lot’?”

Aramis gave him a bitter grin. “I don’t think Cordero and I are heading anywhere but a French dungeon, not after the trouble we’ve caused.” Matías paled, opened his mouth to reply and then quickly shut it again. Aramis’s bitter grin twisted with a note of irony. “Be glad you’re not an officer,” he said. “It’s not all honor and glory, as they’d have you believe. Most of it is the pain and sweat of duty. Keep that in mind if you get out of here,” Aramis added, glancing at Garza pointedly as he spoke.

 

* * *

 

“There he is,” Porthos said, pointing forward.

“Finally.” D’Artagnan spoke on a breath, hushed and relieved. “I’d just about given up hope.”

“Yeah, an’ I’ve just about lost all feeling in my leg,” Porthos grumbled.

Since their initial survey of the lodge, they’d spent two more days watching it from a distance, hidden just past the tree line. Four more musketeers were stationed at similar look out points, divided into two pairs so they could watch all main avenues of approach. But the past two days of waiting had been tedious at best, mind-numbing at worst. The lodge remained undisturbed, with no signs of recent activity. But they’d seen the rough country pathways on their first visit, and they knew that several of those paths had seen recent use, so someone was definitely visiting this supposedly abandoned clearing and its rustic little hunting lodge.

And that someone was finally making an appearance.

“Should we…”?”

“Not yet,” Porthos said softly. “Wait until he’s inside. An’ let’s make sure he’s alone. You circle round to check in with the others. _Quietly_. Find out if they’ve seen anything. It’s possible he brought friends and left them to stand guard. I wanna know that before we move forward.”

With a quick nod, d’Artagnan slunk off into the brush, moving around the clearing to check in with their comrades. Porthos kept his eyes trained on the building. Their mysterious visitor looked around cautiously, one hand resting on the handle to the back door. After a few moments he must have been satisfied that it was safe, as he pulled the door open and entered.

“Got ya’,” Porthos murmured, grinning.

He waited a few more minutes, eyes trained on the door, until d’Artagnan returned.

“So?”

“Nothing. No one has seen any other movement, and our mysterious visitor came alone from the north road.”

“All right, then.” Porthos grinned at d’Artagnan, picking himself up off the ground. “Let’s go give him a surprise, shall we?”

He gestured for d’Artagnan to circle round to the other door and wait. Then, pistol drawn and ready, he opened the door and entered.

It took only a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside. Their target was standing with his back to Porthos, but at the sound of the door, he turned quickly. “I wondered if you’d show up this time after—” The words choked in his throat as he saw Porthos pointing a pistol at his head.

“Not who you were expecting?” Porthos asked lightly.

The man shifted his weight onto his back foot, then turned to make a break for the other door. He made it three steps before the door burst open to reveal d’Artagnan, his pistol drawn and ready.

“Going somewhere?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

Porthos stepped forward. “The real question is who were you expecting to meet here?”

“I don’t see how my business if any concern of yours, monsieur.”

“Really?” Porthos asked. “Because innocent men are always so hesitant to answer simple questions?”

The man scoffed. “You’re not from around here, I take it. If you were, you’d know that suspicion is a necessity if you plan to survive long.”

“And why is that?” d’Artagnan asked. The man looked at them warily, but said nothing. “You’re French?” The man nodded. “And we’re king’s musketeers. So answer our questions.”

The man looked them over, glancing between them both and taking in their uniforms. “My name’s Aubertin. I own a small bit of land north of here, an’ this cabin belongs to my brother. And I have nothing that would be of interest to _musketeers_.” The word came out tinged with derision. “Now leave me be.”

“Simple as that?” Porthos stared at him over the barrel of his pistol.

“Nothing’s simple around these parts, not with you soldiers marching across our lands every few months. French then Spanish, now French again. It’s all we locals can do to keep our heads down and hope we don’t get caught in the crossfire.”

“Is that what you’re doin’ here? Keeping your head down?” Porthos’s voice dripped with skepticism.

“I told you, it’s no business of yours,” Aubertin said through clenched teeth.

“You were waiting for someone when we arrived,” d’Artagana pressed. “Just tell us who it was.”

“My brother. I told you, it’s his place.”

Porthos eyed their surroundings. The building was one large room. A ladder against the side wall led to a loft and a small door led to a cellar, but beyond that there were only a few chairs, a table, and a cabinet in the way of furnishings. “Doesn’t look like he’s been living here lately.”

“He’s away mostly,” Aubertin added. “Tryin’ to escape the war. I meet him here sometimes.”

“Your brother wouldn’t happen to be Spanish, would he?” d’Artagnan asked. Porthos shot him a glare at the lack of subtlety, but d’Artagnan merely shrugged.

Aubertin scowled and cursed. “You bastards. You’re all alike.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” d’Artagnan said.

“No.” Aubertin spat onto the floor. “My brother’s not Spanish. Nor am I. Born and bred Frenchmen, just happen to live near Spanish territory. And for it, we’re treated with scorn and suspicion.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a better reason for that scorn than just where you live,” d’Artagnan said.

Porthos looked the man over carefully, noting the dark hair and eyes. He could have Spanish blood and wish to hide it. But then, the same could be said of Aramis or d’Artagnan. It didn’t prove anything.

“Look,” Porthos said, softening his demeanor. “I get it.” D’Artagnan shot him a surprised look, but Porthos ignored him and continued, letting d’Artganan adjust to the sudden change in tactics. “People look at you and jump to conclusions based on nothing but unfounded speculation. It’s not your fault you live this close to the border, an’ it’s no crime to have a bit of a Spanish look about you…or even a few drops of Spanish blood. Must put you in a tough position, though.”

Aubertin stared at him, eyed narrowed. “What would you know about it?”

Porthos exhaled a harsh, bitter laugh. “Oh, I think I know a thing or two about people jumpin’ to conclusions based on nothin’ but appearances.”

That caused their suspect pause, as Aubertin looked him over and slowly nodded. “I suppose you would. But I’ve done nothin’ wrong. I’m just making my living and trying to avoid any trouble.”

Porthos nodded sympathetically. “Perfectly understandable.”

“So you haven’t seen any Spanish troops around the area, then?” d’Artaganan asked, leaning forward into Aubertin’s space with just a hint of menace. “If you’re as innocent as you say, then surely you’d want to report anything you’ve seen.”

“I just told you,” Aubertin snapped. “I’m trying to stay out of trouble.”

“So you haven’t seen anything?”

“No!” He glanced back at Porthos. “Now can you make him leave me alone?”

Porthos pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if considering it carefully. “I suppose I could…” He shot a glance at d’Artagnan who, while Aubertin’s back was turned, stepped up behind him and grabbed his arms, wrenching them behind his back to pin him in place. Aubertin struggled, but d’Artagnan’s grip remained firm. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to search you first,” Porthos said. “Nothing personal, you’ll understand. It’s just that we have a job to do, and it involves finding any Spanish soldiers in the area…like the ones we’ve heard have been visiting your brother’s place here.”

Aubertin jerked forward, causing d’Artagnan to wince as the motion jarred his injured arm.

“Hey, ease now.” Porthos held up one hand in warning, moving forward to crowd Aubertin’s space, looming over him. “We wouldn’t want to have to get rough with you.”

Aubertin glared back as Porthos began to search him, methodically patting down his clothes and removing the dagger and pistol he kept on his belt. He relieved the man of a small purse, Aubertin objecting with a string of colorful insults, but it held only a few coins. Nothing suspicious.

But like the pickpockets he’d grown up with, Porthos knew that the best prizes were often well-hidden. While the purse was light and innocent enough, a smaller pouch was hidden beneath his belt and tucked inside his trousers. With a grin, Porthos extracted it, prompting an indignant yelp from their captive. He held the pouch up for d’Artagnan to see, then opened it carefully.

“You’re not soldiers,” Aubertin said. “You’re nothing but thieves.”

Porthos raised one eye brow as he looked inside and brought out a single golden coin. “And this? I suppose you earned this through honorable means?” The gold glinted in the light, exposing the Spanish mark on one side.

Aubertin blanched, but gave no ground. “There’ve been Spanish soldiers all over these lands for months. I found that on a corpse left behind after a battle. There’s no shame in taking advantage of what you can in times like these.”

Porthos nodded, but continued his search as he moved one hand down the man’s leg. He felt Aubertin tense, and grinned in satisfaction. “So I suppose that’s also where you found these?” He reached into his boot and extracted a thin parcel of paper. Porthos pulled the string that bound it to reveal a rough map and a few lines of tiny, scrawling Spanish words.

Aubertin swallowed heavily, and d’Artagnan shoved him forward with enough force that he stumbled into Porthos, who held him in place as d’Artagnan produced some rope and began to bind him.

“I suppose this is how you try to stay out of trouble?” Porthos said.

When Aubertin made no answer, d’Artagnan gave him another shove.

“This is treason, you know. If you think it was bad living this close to the war, you should see what it’s like for traitors.”

“I’ve only done what I must to survive.”

D’Artagnan scoffed, and pushed him towards Porthos in disgust. “Come on. Let’s take this scum back to camp.”

Aubertin tensed for only a moment, then threw his head back into d’Artagnan’s nose and stomped down on his foot with enough force to leave d’Artagnan reeling. Aubertin spun out of his grasp and made a break for it…

Only to be drawn up short by Porthos’s fist connecting solidly with this face.

“Now, now,” Porthos said patiently. “I thought you said you liked staying out of trouble?” Aubertin lay sprawled on the floor beneath him, hands covering his face as he cowered. Porthos spared a look for d’Artagnan who nodded, waving off Porthos’s concern.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, pulling his hand away from his nose to check for bleeding. Luckily, there was none. “Just caught me off guard.”

Porthos grunted. “All right, then.” He reached down and pulled the man to his feet. “Up you go. And no more trouble, eh?” Aubertin ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as Porthos seized him by the arms and marched him outside, into the clearing, where they were greeted by the rest of their comrades. Aubertin cast a wild glance around, eyes eventually settling on the woods.

“Looks like all our waiting finally paid off,” one of the musketeers commented.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan said with a nod, following behind Porthos. “We have everything we need here.”

As they marched their new captive towards the path that led back to the musketeers’ camp, Aubertin stared at the forest, almost longingly. Porthos thought he saw him shake his head slightly in a strange way, but it was so subtle he couldn’t be sure it was more than a flinch.

“Come on,” he said. “You’d best get moving. And don’t try anything else.” Aubertin looked at each of his captors before he sighed, hung his head, and allowed the musketeers to lead him away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else given up on this story yet? Anyone still here and actually interested? I've really been struggling with a certain section of this story (which makes up the next 2-3 chapters). But most of the delay has to do with RL and personal issues (2017 has been a hell of a year). But...here is an update...with another chapter almost finished, so...hopefully more soon.  
> And to prove that I do, in fact, have a plan for this crazy story...this is the chapter where a tiny mistake that Aramis made way back in chapter one comes back to haunt him.

As their captivity wore on, Cordero grew more and more restless. Aramis watched from a distance as he shifted around, moving to check on a few of his men, and then resettled back in his chosen spot against a tree before inevitably growing restless and repeating the whole sequence again. He glanced about the camp, and Aramis was fairly certain that he was counting their guards, tracking the musketeers’ movements and calculating how many men he would need to overpower their captors. The answer seemed to be _too many_.

Though Cordero avoided him studiously, Aramis could see the combination of tension and helpless inactivity wearing on the lieutenant. It was understandable, of course, but worrisome. An anxious man was an unpredictable one. And Cordero had never been terribly predictable to start with.

It was nearing dusk when a call went up through the camp. The guards turned away, orders were quickly exchanged, and the camp jolted to life. Something was happening.

Aramis shot a glance at Cordero only to see him frozen in place, muscles tense. He’d gathered his feet up under him, poised in a low crouch, ready to spring.

Eyes widening in realization, Aramis took in his stance, the slackness to the ropes around his wrists that spoke of methodical, painful action as he’d worked to loosen his bonds. The pieces fit together and hit Aramis with a jolt of surprise. Cordero had been waiting for this. Well, not this exactly, but for any distraction that might serve as an opportunity.

He was going to make a break for it.

As if feeling his second officer’s gaze, Cordero turned towards him, their eyes locking. For one moment, Aramis saw Cordero’s uncertainty as he must have weighed his loyalty to his men against his need to escape and report to his superiors. Aramis stared back in shock, then nodded pointedly toward the Spanish soldiers huddled around them, warily watching their captors with barely disguised fear written across their faces.

Cordero shook his head and looked away, searching the trees at the edge of the French camp for the clearest line of escape. Aramis opened his mouth to say something—to stop him, to call for help, to…Aramis didn’t know what.

But before he could say anything, he heard the heavy tread of soldiers approaching and a rough laugh, triumphant and echoing with congratulations. He knew that laugh.

“I told you we’d find him, didn’t I?” The voice of a bragging musketeer. The voice of Aramis’s best friend, exalting in a victory, so familiar that it ached. Aramis turned to look, straining to see past the guards and musketeers gathered about. And then he saw Porthos dragging a man who was bound and gagged, a black eye forming on the side of his face. D’Artagnan was at Porthos’s side and they’d attracted a small crowd. Marcoux was the one offering his congratulations. Porthos clapped him on the back and then grabbed his newfound friend with the black eye. “Better put this one away for safekeeping.” He laughed again, manhandling the prisoner as he moved through the crowd, brushing people aside and taking a deliberate path straight past the Spanish prisoners. It was a show of strength, purposefully gloating to their Spanish captives that they had apprehended another of their co-conspirators.

Aramis stared at the bound man, taking in the well-made clothes paired with the dark hair and eyes. He’d never seen the man before, but he looked well-off, perhaps a merchant or a landowner. He could have been Spanish, given his coloring, although the clothing was more traditionally French in style. Perhaps to disguise any connections with Spain. Living this close to the border, the man would have had to be careful to maintain all outward appearances of being solely devoted to France. God knew how quick people were to make assumptions, even before the war. Aramis had experienced that himself enough times, even as a born and bred Frenchman.

As they dragged him along, clearly parading their newest acquisition, Porthos briefly glanced across the Spanish prisoners, his gaze catching for one nearly imperceptible second on Aramis.

Aramis felt his breath catch as he caught the silent message in Porthos’s gaze.

This was their French informant, the one who’d been passing intelligence to Cordero. They’d found him. They’d actually found him.

His eyes darted back to Cordero, finding him still positioned at the opposite end of the prisoner’s camp, frozen in his crouched position. But the distraction he’d hoped to use to his advantage had now backfired. His escape had been cut off, guards now swarming about the group as Porthos’s little display attracted attention from the other musketeers who had gathered about the prisoners in a way that felt even more threatening.

But Cordero didn’t seem to notice the lost change of escape. His eyes were locked on Porthos and the bound man he held fast in his grip. Cordero’s jaw tightened and then, as Porthos moved away, presumably to present his prize before the captain, Cordero swung round to lock eyes with Aramis.

For a moment, neither of them moved, simply stared at one another, both understanding what their companions could not—that this changed everything. Then Cordero’s gaze darkened and he lunged.

In just a few quick strides he’d moved to land in front of Aramis, his hands suddenly free as he drew back and punched Aramis square in the face. Head snapping to the side, Aramis reeled as Cordero threw a second punch from his back foot, putting his full weight behind it. It hit like a hammer to the side of his head and Aramis gasped, raising loosely bound hands to shield himself. He felt two sharp strikes to his midsection as the world erupted into shouting, a mix of sharp French commands combined with shocked exclamations, both Spanish and French, and the sound of Cordero spitting and cursing. The yelling battered at him, as the ringing in his ears cleared enough for Aramis to realize the blows had ceased, though a pair of hands now restrained him.

“You lying bastard, Renato,” Cordero snarled, still swearing in Spanish. “This is down to you. I don’t know how, but somehow it’s you.”

“Get him out of here!” d’Artagnan called. “Separate the prisoners. And re-bind him! How did he even get free in the first place?” Aramis heard a vague muttering of answers from their guards, but d’Artagnan cut them off. “It doesn’t matter. Do whatever it takes. Tie them hand and foot if you have to! I want these men secured.”

There were a chorus of “yes, sirs,” and Aramis had to suppress a hysterical laugh at the way the guards leapt to do d’Artagnan’s bidding. It looked like their apprentice musketeer was all grown up. He bit his tongue to stop the playful teasing that jumped to his lips.

A gasp of pain sent those thoughts skittering away as others guards yanked him upright, grabbing at his arms and feet to secure him, then retying his hands before shoving him back to the ground. Aramis didn’t resist, just let himself collapse back onto the ground and focused on breathing.

Only later, when the blurriness in his vision subsided and his breathing evened out did Aramis understand what Cordero’s outburst had cost them all. All of the prisoners were now rebound with ropes around both wrists and ankles. Aramis tugged on his wrists only to meet sharp resistance. He looked down to find a length of rope stretching from his bound wrists and secured to a nearby tree, tethering him in place at one end of the prisoners’ confined corner of the camp. At the opposite end of this space, sat Cordero, similarly bound and tied to another tree. Even at the maximum length allowed by their respective ropes, they would be kept far away from one another. A glance around showed the others were not tethered, but their guards had been doubled.

Aramis tugged at his ropes again, feeling the bite even through the rough bandages hidden beneath his bonds. The tugging was futile, and Aramis felt like an unruly dog who’d been leashed.

He snorted softly. Athos and Porthos had once said that they should put him on a leash to curb his restless tendency to wander off on his own. It had been a joke then, a response to finding Aramis wandering into the garrison late for morning muster after a lingering morning in his mistress’s bed. The joke had been accompanied by a hearty laugh (Porthos) and a wry snort (Athos). It was, Aramis realized, rather less funny now.

Again, he scanned the prisoners and their downcast faces before turning his attention back to Cordero. The lieutenant bled from a fresh cut above his eye, one more bruise to join his already impressive collection. And he glared at Aramis with thinly veiled hatred.

 

* * *

 

“Well, that could have gone better.” D’Artagnan grimaced as he and Porthos emerged from the tent where he had just stowed Aubertin, keeping him secure and out of sight until they learned more.

“Eh, I don’t know. If keeping the lieutenant and his men off guard was the goal, then I’d say we’re doing just fine.”

“Yeah, but Porthos, you saw the way he reacted as soon as he saw Aubertin.”

“I did, yeah.”

“And?”

“And it confirmed everything we thought we knew. This guy was his informant, and now he knows that their whole mission is screwed. We’ve caught them red-handed.”

“And he also knows that Aramis is involved.”

Porthos blew out a long breath. “Yeah. It sure looked that way.”

“Maybe not,” Marcoux piped up. Porthos and d’Artagnan both turned to him, wearing mirrored expressions of doubt and curiosity.

“Well, the two of them have been at each other’s throats for days. Cordero may suspect, but there’s no way he can be certain. All he does know is that Aramis…er, _Renato_ doesn’t trust him and he doesn’t trust Renato.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” d’Artagnan asked.

Marcoux just shrugged. “You haven’t seen them as much as I have. Trust me. Those prisoners are confused and they’re scared. Even the lieutenant.”

“Yeah. But I’m not sure that ‘paranoid and desperate’ is exactly what we should be aiming for here,” Porthos said. “A desperate man is an unpredictable one.”

“Well, let’s just hope that Cordero’s desperation continues to play into our hands,” Marcoux said.

“And that Aubertin gives us the information we need to get Aramis out of this mess,” d’Artagnan added.

 

* * *

 

It was the next morning when Athos finally had time to confer with the others over a slightly soggy camp breakfast. Athos had spent much of the previous night with their new acquisition, and while Aubertin had been reluctant, he was no seasoned soldier. He hadn’t spilled all his secrets, of course, but he’d revealed enough.

He lived near the border of French and Spanish territory, and it was clear he’d been making quite a profit from his precarious existence, earning Spanish gold in exchange for French secrets, gathering gossip from friends, neighbors, or soldiers stationed nearby, and then selling it to the Spanish. He seemed to be a mere opportunist, but Athos suspected there may be more to it than that. It was possible that he wasn’t acting alone. After all, there may be other disillusioned civilians looking to make a profit from the war. If Aubertin had a network of his own, a disparate group of informants and spies, scattered across the surrounding countryside, then this operation could be spread throughout the whole province. But even if that were the case, without Aubertin to serve as the focal point for their intelligence network, Cordero’s raids would never have been this successful.

“Do you think it will be enough?” d’Artagnan asked over breakfast, as Athos shared when he’d learned.

Athos shrugged. “It will certainly disrupt the Spanish stream of information, at least for the time being. Besides, he implied that Cordero is the mastermind behind the raids. Without Aubertin to supply information and Cordero to coordinate the attacks, their strategy will fall apart. At least until they build a new network of informants. Either way, it will keep our troops safe for now.”

“And buy Aramis his freedom?” Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged again.

“I wish you wouldn’t say it like that,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “It makes Aramis sound like a slave.”

“He might as well be.”

“We all are, in a way.” Athos stood and stretched.

A commotion outside drew their attention to the tent flap just before an out-of-breath soldier rushed in.

“Sorry, captain,” he said, between harsh breaths. “Didn’t mean to…interrupt.” He glanced at each of them. “But we just heard…” he waved one hand behind him, gasping.

“Speak up, man,” Porthos chided.

“Sorry,” the young soldier apologized again. “Our lookouts just reported riders, heading this way.”

“Spanish?” Athos asked. Porthos and d’Artagnan were already rising from their seats, reaching for discarded sword belts and buckling them deftly.

“No, captain. French. An emissary from Paris with full guard.”

D’Artagnan looked at Athos, one eyebrow raised. “Tréville’s messenger?”

Athos nodded. “Likely. He should have received my message a few days ago.”

“No, sirs,” the soldier interrupted. Three sets of eyes turned to stare at him. “Sorry, I mean, yes sirs, but it isn’t…” He took another breath. “I mean to say it’s not a messenger. It’s the first minister himself.”

D’Artagnan’s hand slipped off the belt he’d been in the process of buckling. Porthos stopped and stared at the soldier intently. “You’re sure?” The soldier nodded.

“Well,” Athos said drily. “This should make for some interesting conversation.”

He ignored the dark look that crossed Porthos’s face as he strode out into the camp, ready to meet Tréville as soon as he arrived.

 

* * *

 

Aramis leaned back on the ground, eyes closed as he tried to block out the world around him.

“What if they come back for us?” Ramón whispered from somewhere nearby.

“They seem awfully busy at the moment,” Garza replied.

Aramis ignored them, not even cracking one eyelid.

Another restless night, tied and bound, with no news from his musketeer friends and only tense silence from his Spanish comrades, had left him fed up and out of patience. Porthos’s mission seemed to have been a success, and yet he’d not even had the decency to tell Aramis the outcome of his mission—a mission he’d only been able to accomplish based on information Aramis had supplied.

Though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, Aramis was sulking.

He watched the patterns of light and shadow shift behind his eyelids with the shafts of sunlight filtering through the trees. He could almost imagine he was somewhere peaceful—laying in a field of fresh grass under a sunny sky, perhaps—were it not for the shouts of musketeers and the sound of horses.

“I’m telling you, something’s going on.” Matías this time, voice tight with worry.

“Just don’t attract attention,” Graza hissed.

“But what if—”

“Shhhhh.”

But now that they’d disturbed his peaceful imaginings, Aramis realized there were other sounds. That wasn’t just a few horses neighing or stamping their feet. It was the sound of riders. How many? Half a dozen or more, if he had to guess. And those musketeers weren’t just calling friendly greetings and casual orders to one another. There was surprise and a fission of anxiety tinging those voices. It almost reminded him of the way young soldiers would call out in surprise when their commanding officer caught them unawares…

Aramis’s eyes snapped open and he sat up suddenly.

No. It couldn’t be.

His Spanish comrades were sitting nearby, but no one paid him any heed, all eyes focused on the musketeers bustling hurriedly about camp.

There was no doubt about it now. This was not the normal buzz of camp activity.

Two musketeers, Bernard and another who Aramis did not know, stood guard nearest to the prisoners. Both shifted uncomfortably, until Bernard reached out to snag a passing officer.

“What’s going on?” Bernard whispered. He spoke French, but the prisoners strained to listen regardless, though only Aramis could possibly understand. Aramis cast a glance over his shoulder to examine the other half of their Spanish party. Cordero was also straining to hear, his loyal followers crowded around him.

“Stay where you are,” the other musketeer told Bernard. “You’ve not been relieved of your station.”

“But what’s going on? Why is everyone else…?”

“Stay there, and stay quiet,” the musketeer said, voice low and firm.

“But why…”

“It’s the first minister,” the musketeer hissed.

“What? Here?” Bernard exclaimed. “Morbleau!”

“Exactly. Who knows what we’ve done to attract his attention. So be on your best behavior—all of you!”

Aramis had to choke back his own curse. He looked quickly between the musketeers as they straightened themselves to attention and then to the prisoners gathered around. He saw Garza, Francis, and Beltrán staring at the musketeers, obviously sensing the crackling tension throughout the camp. Vicente glanced between the musketeers and Cordero, as if hoping his lieutenant would give him some form of guidance. Ramón avoided all eye contact, looking down, clenching his hands to keep them from shaking.

But Matías ignored the musketeers, staring at Aramis with an unreadable expression. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it closed, eyes wide and jaw tight. Aramis met his eyes for a moment, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

“You…” Matías broke off, shaking his head. His frown deepened before his gaze returned to Aramis, hesitantly. “What did they say?” he whispered, voice tight.

“An official just arrived. I think…” Aramis paused and looked away.

“What?” Matías demanded.

“I think they said it was a minister…from Paris.”

The other prisoners exchanged nervous glances.

“But if that’s true…” Garza said slowly, “why would he be here?”

“Intelligence. He thinks someone here has it. That’s the only reason a senior war minister would be out in the field.”

Almost as if they were one being, the Spanish soldiers all shifted to glance at Cordero. And sure enough, two guards were already moving towards him, hauling the lieutenant away. Cordero cast a single backwards glance at Aramis, jaw tight and eyes accusatory.

Aramis felt his shoulders tense, and he knew he wouldn’t need to feign nervousness when it was his turn to be taken away. This was not an interrogation he was looking forward to.

“So what happens now?” Garza asked in a small voice, his youthful bravado falling away.

Aramis swallowed the lump in his throat as he stared off in the direction Cordero had been taken. “I don’t know. But I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”

He turned back to face the others and found Matías still staring at him, lips pressed tightly together and his expression guarded. Aramis raised an eyebrow again, but Matías merely turned away with a frown, refusing to meet his eyes.


End file.
